I Feel So
by Brat-Child3
Summary: I hugged myself and let out a sob: longing for the comfort of his smile, his touch. I was so sick. So sick and tired of being angry. In one clear moment, I realized how hopeless it had all been, and I asked myself: Now what?
1. Cookies & Dreidles

**Authors Note: **Had this idea and started writing and then couldn't stop. If I get reviews and people like it, I'll continue. Let me know. :)

Kyle's POV

**Disclaimer: **I do not own South Park.

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**I Feel So:**

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I guess you can say that he used to be my hero. Most boys strive to be like their fathers, but I admired Stan far too much to want to be anything like my dad. And who wouldn't? Stan was handsome, and friendly, and… _cool. _He was brave and stood up for what he knew in his heart was good and right. He was honest and giving, sensitive and loving. He cared about animals and starving children in Nairobi. He kicked ass at Game Sphere. And best of all he was _sane_, when no one else made any goddamn sense. He was the leader, and my best friend.

It was December when I decided he was my hero. I was four, and I was the only one in preschool who wasn't eating home-baked cookies and singing Christmas carols with the teacher. They gave me a plastic dreidel and set me in the corner. And as I sat there, alone, watching all my friends talking about some fat dude I'd never heard of called Santa Clause, who somehow manages to break into people's houses by stuffing himself down chimneys, and all the presents this fat dude was going to bring them, I began to cry.

The teacher ignored me, and Cartman teased me for the first time in history. I'll never forget how scary he looked. A big blob of fat with beady, brown eyes, smiling an evil, heartless grin and pointing straight at me.

"Look everyone," He bellowed. "Jew boy's crying because he doesn't get any Christmas presents or cookies." Taking a huge bite out of his gingerbread man, he rubbed his tummy. "Mmm, it's so good. I can't believe how yummy these are."

I remember Wendy frowning, looking genuinely puzzled by this. "How come Kyle doesn't get any cookies?"

"Yeah, how come?" Kenny, nothing but a little ball of orange back then, backed her up.

"My mom told me it's because his family is dirty Jesus killers." Cartman sneered.

"It's not true," I sniffled. "I'm _not_ a Jesus killer."

That's when it happened. Stan got up from the play time rug and toddled over to me. His wide blue eyes absorbed the hurt in mine and mirrored back compassion.

"It's alwight, Kyle," He soothed. "You can have my gingew-bwead cookie."

I wiped the snot from my nose with the back of my hand as a few more warm tears slipped down my cheeks. He looked like an angel standing there, his smile soft and his little hand outstretched with a giant, sugar covered cookie man curled in his fingers.

"Jews can't eat Christmas cookies!" Cartman protested.

"Can so, fat boy!" Stan shot back.

"Stanley, he's right." Ms. Claridge interjected. "Kyle's mom informed us that he is not to participate in any activities that go against his religion."

My eyes watered up a second time. Everyone was looking at me because I was different somehow, and back then I didn't understand it. Why couldn't I be part of this "Christmas" thing? What was wrong with me?

Stan looked from the teacher, to me, and finally down at his cookie. I thought for sure I was going to be abandon.

"Then I don't want a cookie, eithew!" Tossing the treat to the floor, his tan shoe with the brown teddy bear on the side smashed it into the carpet.

"What the-?" Cartman gasped, flabbergasted as he stared at the crumbled mess on the carpet. "Are you _insane?" _He screamed.

I looked up into Stan's face, returning his smile as he sat down next to me in my lonely little corner.

"I'm hewe fow you, dude." He promised. "You'we my best fwiend."

In the background, I could hear Cartman crying and wailing about the lost cookie, which made it all the more memorable. In that moment, the boy I had been sleeping next to during nap time, sharing my milk with, and chasing around the playground since September became a greater hero to me than fire men, super man, and even my dad could ever hope to be.

…So where is my hero now? He sure as shit isn't here, like he said he would be. The douche.

I knew this was going to happen. As sure as I know the sky is blue, penguins don't fly, and Cartman is a big, fat ass, I knew he wasn't going to show up. He's been doing this to me for the past month and I'm really getting sick of it. I'm beginning to wonder why we're even friends at all.

"Kyle, Hey!"

I look up from the curb where I'm sitting and into Stan's breathless, red face. He smiles at me, displaying a pearly row of perfect teeth and brushes a strand of hair from his eye.

_Oh, yeah. _That's _why._

All he has to do is smile at me and I forgive him. Well, that's not gonna work this time, damnit. I'm really pissed off this time. And cold.

"Sorry I'm late, Dude. Wendy wouldn't stop talking. She really liked the bracelet I got her."

With an angry grunt, I pound my elbow onto my knee and slam my chin into my palm, making sure to look in the opposite direction he's standing.

"Is something wrong?" There's a frown in his voice as he sits next to me. The material of his shirt brushes my bare arm. It's chilly out, making it easy for me to feel the warmth of his body heat through the dark blue sweater. I fight off the shiver that rushes down my spine.

"Gee, Stan," I hiss with coated sarcasm. "What would make you think a thing like _that?"_

"Your ice-cream is melting all over your hand."

Glancing at the cone I've been holding, I watch some of the melted treat drip onto the sidewalk. "My _ice-cream?"_

"Yeah, Dude!" He swipes some of it out of the cone and sucks it off his finger. "That's Swiss Chocolate Swirl, how could you?"

"_Swiss chocolate swirl!" _My fingers squeeze into a fist around the cone, breaking through the now soggy texture and spraying its half melted insides on me, Stan, and the pavement. "Is that the _only _reason you think something's wrong?" I shout, now facing him completely.

He blinks at me, confused. God, he's so fucking _stupid _sometimes. I throw the remainder of the squished ice-cream cone at him.

"What about the fact that I've been sitting here for the past hour and twenty three minutes waiting for you, Stan!" I scream. "Ever think of that?"

"Kyle, come on." He begs on a tremendous sigh. "I told you that-"

"Yeah, I know! Wendy, Wendy, Wendy." I pout.

"Kyle-"

"Don't you "Kyle" me, you douche!" I'm so mad I'm shaking visibly.

His eyebrows furrow. "You're the one being a douche, you douche! Just because I ran a little late-"

"You didn't _just _run a _little _late, Stan!" I stand abruptly. My blood is boiling in my veins, pumping so much adrenalin that I can't sit still any longer. "You've been over an hour late _every single time _we've made plans ever since you got back together with _Wendy _The Skank!"

"Don't call her a skank, asshole!" He shoots up just as quickly as I had, challenging me with anger-fired eyes. "You're the one who got us back together in the first place, _Kyle!" _

"Because I wanted to see my best friend happy, _not _because I never wanted to see him _at all!" _

Tears form behind my eyes. Angry, heartbroken tears. But I blink and swallow them back, refusing to break down. Stan's expression softens.

"Dude," He stares deeply into my eyes. "I'm sorry, Ky." His hand finds my shoulder, resting there comfortably. "You're right. I shouldn't have kept you waiting."

Violently, I yank away from his touch. "I'm sorry, too."

I'm shaking against the cold, against the terror I feel in what I'm about to do. There's a lump in my throat and an ache in my heart. The wind kicks up, whipping around the dark bangs poking out of Stan's hat. His lips, parted slightly in concern, look pale and chapped from the dry, cold wind.

"What do you mean?"

My lower lip trembles as I stare at him. This boy that's been my hero forever. I want to hug him.

"I'm sorry I have to find a new best friend."

"Kyle-"

"No!" My voice is harsh, even to me. I tuck my hands under my arms, hugging myself. "I'm not going to sit around waiting for you anymore while you just forget about me, Stan."

He takes a step closer, his eyes penetrating mine so deeply I have to look away. "I could _never _forget about you, Kyle. You're my best friend, Dude." His hand finds me again, resting warm on my shoulder. "My _super _best friend."

The words swell into my heart, making me feel fuzzy inside. Swallowing, I find the courage to look up from my hard stare on his shoe. He smiles at me; His Stan smile, his hero smile. It's not insincere, but genuine and sweet, gently begging my pardon.

My resolve is melting, followed closely by my heart. I want to stay angry, but I can't. I can hold a grudge forever, but not against him, because I love him. Too much, some say, for my own good.

Slowly, my lips curl into a grin. In the next instant, I'm pulled close against him in one of those "manly" one-armed hugs. But before I can fully process the display of affection, he pulls away.

"Lets get you a new ice-cream."

Once again, all is forgiven.

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An hour and forty minutes later, we're sitting in the middle of Stan's living room, pounding the buttons on his Game Sphere controllers.

I'm up on my knees, my body moving in the directions I want the game character to go and my tongue sticking out the side of my mouth in determination. Stan is reclining on the couch, the controller in his lap and a content expression on his face. His thumbs hit all the right buttons at just the right time, like a dance sequence he's practiced and perfected. Despite all my effort, my cussing, the threats and faces I'm making at the TV, I'm still losing.

"_Damnit!" _I howl, finally admitting defeat as I watch my players' gory death flash across the screen.

"Told you I was gonna kick your pathetic ass." He gloats, sounding totally pleased with himself.

Shrugging, I push up off my knees and fall back onto the couch next to him. "I'd rather you kick my ass virtually than for real."

"I'd never kick your ass, Kyle."

"I know," I agree, casting him a cheese smile. "You wouldn't be able to."

He gives me a look, raising a skeptical eyebrow high on his forehead. "What's that suppose to mean?" The artificial light from the overhead lamp reflects off his hair, creating a halo of shine around his head.

"It means; you may be able to kick my ass at some crappy video game, but we all know who'd win in a real fight."

I jounce my eyebrows at him and feel my stomach flip-flop when he returns my smile with a devilishly playful one. Tossing his controller to the ground, he turns onto his hands and knees, inching toward me. His eyebrows lower dangerously over his eyes, which are vibrant and dancing with mischief.

"We'll see about that." Suddenly he pounces on me, sending us both tumbling to the floor.

I yelp in surprise and fight back, though playfully. My heart's hammering in my chest and I feel warm. So, _so _warm. Jabbing him in the nuts with my knee, I manage to overpower him and straddle his lap. He takes a few swings at me with his fists, but I can't seem to grab a hold of them to stop the insanity. He looks like a baby wiggling around excitedly and it makes me laugh. But my victory is short lived. Lifting his legs, he flips over in a backward somersault, me still straddling his lap. My back hits the floor, nearly knocking the wind out of me.

I'm not about to give up that easily. As he scrambles to get away, I leap on top of him again, this time wrapping my legs around his neck and head.

"Kyle!" He whines, trying to pry them away.

"Say uncle."

A few soft grunts and gasps for air. "… No."

My thighs squeeze tighter. "Say uncle!"

He struggles silently for a few seconds, and then I feel twenty of his thirty-two teeth sink into the tender flesh of my inner thigh.

"Aaaah!" I wail, releasing my grasp and bucking him away from me with my feet. "You bastard!"

Stan falls away from me, snickering in boyish delight.

"You… you bit me!"

"H'yeah."

"_Bit _me!" I repeat.

"Uh huh." Chuckling, he flips me off.

I dive on top of him again. Sadly, I think I fell into a trap, because the moment I land on him, he twists my arm behind my back.

"Say uncle." He mocks.

"_Bastard." _I breathe.

He twists my arm tighter, making me moan in pain. My legs are on either side of him and I can feel the soft bulge in his pants against mine. Heat flushes my body. I lean forward, my breath hitting against his face as I try to free my arm.

Smiling, he jounces his eyebrows identical to the way I had earlier. "Uncle?"

A few more struggles, and I collapse onto his chest. "Uncle."

Chills tickle my spine as his hands falls away from my arm and slide down my sides. He smells good, like vanilla beans. I take a deep breath of the pleasant scent before sitting up and pulling my arm back around to the front of my body. His bangs fall softly over his forehead, the dark color contrasting against the cool blue of his eyes.

The doorbell chimes, making me jump, and in the next instant I'm thrown onto the floor as Stan makes a dash to answer it.

_Shit._

You'd think he had been waiting for the last orgasm in history to arrive on his doorstep tonight.

"Hi, Stan."

The hairs on my neck prickle at the sound of her high, overly feminine voice. So, I was right about the orgasm deal. I swallow to keep the urge to puke down.

"Hey, Babe." His voice is flooded with tenderness, making the situation all the more barf-arrific.

What the hell is she doing here, anyway? Hasn't she sucked the life out of him long enough today? For God's sake, it's mine turn to do some damn sucking!

Pausing, I realize the way my own thoughts sound and chuckle to myself.

"Sucking," I repeat, highly amused with myself. Most people have "blonde moments" or "senior moments". Lucky me, I have "Kenny moments".

"What's so funny?" Stan questions, now in the middle of the room. Wendy's arm is linked with his, her side pressing into him so there isn't a half inch of space between the two. Stan doesn't seem to mind. He's beaming like he just got his first erection.

Somehow, I'm irritated with his happiness and I don't know why. I shake my head, then stand from where I had been carelessly thrown aside. Like Cartman's old Snacky s'mores' boxes. Maybe that's all I am to him. An empty box of nothing because he's had his fill and found something that satisfies his cravings better.

"Kyle, I need a favor."

My eyes shift between the two. If I didn't know any better, I'd almost think they were related. Though Wendy's eyes are a deeper cerulean, they share the same raven colored hair and attractive, angelic features. Something in my gut is warning me I'm not going to like whatever they're planning. In fact, I wish I could stick my fingers in my ears and go, "La La La La La!" so I don't have to hear it. Unfortunately, I'm no longer eight.

"… What?" I ask, carefully taking in their subtle grins. I hate to admit that Wendy is good for him. But it's true. There's a glow about him when they're together that's too hard to ignore and too painful to bare. I pull my eyes away so I don't have to look at it anymore. It's disgusting.

"Cover for me?"

Bile rises in my throat, burning my esophagus along the way. His words are pleading, soft, and I detect a hint of embarrassment there.

"Huh"?" I swallow and dare a glance into his eyes. They're apologetic.

"You know," His tongue darts out, nervously wetting his lips. "When my parents come home."

My stomach lurches and I almost spray the couple with my half digested dinner and ice-cream cone. His hopeful eyes only make my heart beat more painfully against my ribs, which suddenly feel like they've been sharpened to fine points. Lightheadedness wavers over me. I grab the arm of the couch to support myself, feeling my breath shallow.

"You're leaving?" My voice sounds weak and distant, like I didn't even speak it at all. I wish my lungs weren't so tight.

"…Well, yeah," Stan admits. His hand moves up to the back of his neck, rubbing absentmindedly. I want to wring it. "I mean, it's not like we were doing anything special," He continues, officially sinking my heart like a lost battleship. "We were just screwing around and then gonna go to sleep."

"I doubt you're gonna do anything with Wendy besides screw around and then go to sleep." I snap, feeling rage bottling up in my blood.

"Dude!" He shrieks, blatantly embarrassed at the remark.

He deserves it. Dickhole.

"I'm just gonna wait outside." Wendy decides, giving me a careful look before disappearing through the door.

"What the hell was that?" Stan raves the second it clicks shut.

"You talk about sex all the time." I shrug it off.

His eyebrows furrow, but it isn't scary. "_Kenny _talks about sex all the time. And yeah, maybe sometimes I join in, but you don't say shit like that in front of a chick."

"She's not a chick, she's Wendy." I attest, knowing full well I'm being a baby and not caring one bit. He hurt my feelings first.

"You're acting like a total dick. What is up?" I ignore him. "Kyle?"

"An hour and twenty-three minutes," I remind him. "I waited an hour and twenty-three minutes for you, and now you're just going to blow me off for her again?"

With a sigh, he rolls his eyes. "Oh no. Here we go again." I close my mouth, feeling suddenly like I'm gonna cry. "You're starting to sound like a nagging girlfriend, dude. We spent all evening together."

All evening. We had spent all of two hours together. Before, in the long, long ago, no one could get us apart. And now a few hours was "all evening" to him.

Ouch.

"Please, Kyle?" He asks again. "Every time I'm with her, one of our parents are hovering around. It's like they don't have anything better to do but annoy us or something. This is the only chance I have to just be alone with her and not worry about anyone else getting in the way."

I'm angry. And I'm hurt. And for the first time I just want him to go away. Keeping my head down, I blink back forming tears and give a nod.

"Thanks, dude." The smile is back in his voice, which only makes me feel worse. He pats my shoulder three times, and then he's out the door.

I fall back onto the couch, feeling numb and lonely all at once. The ending victory music from the game we'd been playing continues onward, repeating itself for God knows how long until Mr. and Mrs. Marsh walk through the door.

"Kyle?" Randy asks, but it's Sharon that approaches me first.

"Where's Stanley?" She questions.

My eyes move to hers. I should have gone up to Stan's room, got in bed, locked the door, and shouted that we were both in there asleep when they came knocking. I had said I would cover for him. A promise is a promise. But at the same time, I never _said _I promised. In fact, I never said anything. He just assumed.

"Kyle?" She pries again.

_He ran off into the night with his slutty girlfriend, and now he's probably humping her like crazy, _I want to say. _Then he tried to make me lie about it. I know you're disappointed, because so am I. He used to be my hero and now he's just a giant douche. Ground him until he's eighty._

"He's already in bed," I explain. "I'm just picking up." Slipping to the floor, I begin to roll up the controllers.

"Oh. Well, that's really nice of you." Randy thanks me.

"Mmm." I acknowledge, feeling too broken for words. After finishing with the game and placing our milk glasses in the sink, I head up the stairs to Stan's room, to sleep in Stan's bed.

Alone.

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_BratChild3 _


	2. Baby Oil

**Authors Note: **Wow, thanks for all the nice reviews! I really appreciate all the encouragement. To be safe, I had to change the rating. Don't worry, they don't fight like this through the whole thing. :)

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**Chapter 2- Baby Oil;**

Stan sneaks back in around four-thirty in the morning.

I had dozed off some time around one, but kept waking up, wondering if Stan had come home. Each time, I had found the spot next to me empty. In my head, I had planned what I was going to say to him. I was going to be calm, but firm, and let him know what an incredible ass wipe he's being to me.

Instead, I feel my spine freeze when I hear his door creek open. The familiar silhouette of his lanky body and poof-ball hat sneaks close to me and leans into my face. Closing my eyes, I pretend to be asleep, only to gain the knowledge of what he'd do in my unconscious state.

"Kyle?" He whispers, his warm, fragrant breath hitting against my eyelids.

He smells like Stan. Clean and masculine and good. I had expected Wendy's scent to have rubbed off on him. I'm glad it didn't. My favorite smell in the whole world is his. It makes me feel safe and loved, gay as that might sound. Pretending to stir in my "sleep" I breathe in deep, letting it fill my senses.

When his figure moves away from me, I crack an eyelid open and peek at him. He pulls off his hat, tossing it aside and cursing when it knocks a framed photo off his desk. I smile, but it fades slowly as both my eyes open up to watch him. Through the darkness, I can see him pull off his sweater, sailing it in the general direction he had chucked his hat.

I love that sweater. I had bought it for him a few months ago just because I knew he'd look good in it. And he does. The deep blue color sets off his eyes and compliments his dark hair. Part of me wonders why I'm not jealous of how handsome he is. Instead, I love to look at him for that very reason. It's the strangest damn thing, but I guess it's because I'm amazed at how admirable everything about him really is. He's almost too perfect to be human.

"Damnit." His soft curse breaks me out of my thoughts, and I have to bite back my laughter when I take notice of his situation. While trying to pull the white T-shirt he had worn under his sweater off, he had somehow managed to get it stuck over his head with one arm caught in the collar. Twisting in circles, he jerks his arm around, trying desperately to free himself.

"Get off me, asshole!" I hear the seam rip, and then he flings the constraining garment across the room. "Piece of shit." Biting my lip, I again hold back my amusement. So this is how his room gets so messy.

The sound of a zipper cuts through the room, bringing my heart to a dead stop.

…_He's taking off his pants._

No big deal. I shower with him everyday in Gym. It's not like I've never seen him naked before. Hell, I've _been _naked with him before.

_Oh, who the hell do I think I'm kidding?_

I can't ignore the way my heart has jumpstarted to hard, quick pulses, pumping my blood south of my belt line. Twisting my fingers into the sheets, I squeeze as hard as I can, trying to contain myself. Contain _what _exactly, I'm not really sure. All I know is that if I don't, I'm going to explode in some way, shape, or form. My wide-eyed stare magnetizes on him, and I watch his pants fall to the floor, creating a pool of material around his ankles. I swallow hard and realize my mouth's gone dry.

Maybe I _have _seen him naked a million times before. But, call me a full-fledged retard, there's something about laying in his bed, nothing on but boxers and a t-shirt, and watching him strip in the dark privacy of his room that seems incredibly intimate. It takes me back to night I think about so often, and wonder if he's forgotten all about; The night he gave me my first orgasm.

We were twelve, and I can't say I hadn't thought about sex before. In fact, it had been entering my mind quite often. That was how it all got started in the first place. Two curious boys with two dirty minds, and you do the math. Didn't take us long to raid Mr. Marsh's porn collection. Giggling, (in a total non-girl way, may I add) we took the box of goods back to Stan's room, locked his door, and closed the blinds. Selecting one of the three video's marked 'XXX' at random, I popped it in while Stan strewn a half dozen dirty magazines across his bed.

Taking a few backward steps from the TV, the first thing I noticed was the incredibly crappy film quality. The second thing was the cheesy music that filled the room. It made me laugh.

"What?"

I looked at Stan, who had made himself comfy on the bed, lying on his belly with his feet in the air behind him.

"The music." His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Dude, it's so fucking corny."

"Oh." I observed him, casually watching the opening credits. He pushed a stray piece of hair from his eyes. "What?"

"You've done this before." I accused.

"Huh?"

My eyebrow arched as I shot him a look that said he knew damn well what I meant. A slow smile curved his lips.

"Once."

My face relaxed into a soft grin. "You horny bastard." His smile widened and brightened another degree, obviously taking this label as a compliment to its fullest.

Joining him on his bed, I laid next to him in an identical position. At first, we both ignored the video because it was too busy trying to have a plot, and began thumbing through magazines. I remember wanting to laugh again, or gag maybe, because all the girls were so fake it wasn't doing anything for me. Fake hair color, fake tans, fake boobs. It would be like having sex with a life sized Barbie doll.

"I wonder if they taste like plastic, or just look it." Stan wondered aloud, seemingly reading my thoughts.

Laughter bubbled out of my throat, making him smile up at me. "How does Kenny get off on this?"

"Boobs are boobs, I guess." He decided, flipping the magazine closed.

Soft moans began emitting from the TV, drawing our attention back to the screen. We watched for endless minutes, saying nothing, our eyes wide and round with shocked excitement at the images playing out.

"Fuck," Stan hissed, pushing himself into a sitting position.

I glanced at him, gaining an eyeful of the huge bulge in his pants. His hand moved down to it, squeezing through the material, somehow making my own hardness pulse.

I found myself more interested in Stan's masturbating techniques than I was in the hard-core movie running for my viewing pleasure. Whether or not he didn't notice me watching or didn't really care, he kept at it, immersing himself in the pleasures so deeply he was closing his eyes and arching his neck, no longer watching the video himself.

He fell back against a mountain of pillows, and I sat up to see him better. His breathing was audible, filling and exiting his lungs in deep, rhythmic patterns as his fingers worked open his pants.

"Kyle," He breathed, and I almost came right there. "there's baby oil in the drawer."

Blink.

"… You can use some, too." Blue eyes opened to look up at me, ablaze with a kind of fire I'd never seen before.

Too fascinated to ask questions, I complied to his request, reaching into the side drawer next to the bed and producing the bottle of oil. He snatched it from my hand, nearly breaking the cap open and then pouring a generous amount into his palm. It didn't take long for his heavy breathing to develop into soft moans and purrs. The sound had my senses reeling, my ecstasy building higher and higher until I ripped my own pants open and began mimicking him.

I focused on every part of him; his toes curling into the sheets, back arching off the bed, the movements of his hands on his body, pleasure radiating from his expression, and the groans of satisfaction.

His eyes rolled into the back of his head and his eyelashes fluttered to a close when release hit him. My own hands stilled, fingers compelled to touch him. The urge was so strong, to this day I don't know how I managed to keep them to myself. His body relaxed, hands falling to his sides, and he looked at me. In his sexual afterglow, he stared up at me unabashedly, then down at my shy hands.

Sitting up, he faced toward me and spoke softly. "Lay back. It's better when you're comfortable." I obeyed, feeling excited and scared as hell all at once. "It's cool, dude," he continued. "we're both guys here. Try some of this."

Outstretching my hand, I let him pour a dollop of baby oil into my palm. He watched as I applied it shyly, my movements subtle and uncoordinated.

With a small snort of laughter, he smiled down at me. "Don't have much of a technique going, do you?" He teased affectionately.

I half-smiled back. "I haven't ever- done this before."

"_What?" _His eyes practically bulged from his head. "Are you shitting me?" I shook my head. His gaze traveled down my body, and then he took my wrist, pulling my hands away from my nether regions. "Try it like this."

Both of his hands wrapped around me, making my jaw drop open in shock and a moan escape my throat.

"Dude, I haven't even done anything yet." He laughed, but before I had a chance to respond in any way, his expression turned serious and his hands began sliding against the oiled skin. Both fists clenched tight around me, he began twisting them in opposite directions, and then up and down, making a corkscrew motion.

I threw my head back, pressing it hard into the pillows, baring and grinding my teeth while moans rushed through them. His hands felt way damn better than mine. And not just the incredibly hot way he was touching me, either. Just the fact that it was _his _hands was orgasmic.

It took all but twenty seconds of Stan's magical motions before my body quickened, making me shiver as an eruption hit. My senses all blacked out. All except touch, because nothing existed but wave after shockwave of pleasure, coursing my entire body and then dying out slowly.

That's how Stan gave me my first orgasm. He was so casual about it afterward. I think he was honestly just showing me how to work it more effectively, but the action has had a lasting effect on me. Stan and sex are now one and the same. Not saying that he's nothing but a piece of ass in my mind, but rather that I've associated the very act of sex with him. I've spanked the monkey regularly since, but I always have the best release when I think of that night and the way his hands felt on me. I admit that I've wished it would happen again, but it hasn't, and I don't think it ever will.

So can you really blame my initial reaction to him undressing? Me lying in the very spot it happened?

Shivering, I pull the sheet up to my chin and ignore the growing mound in my boxers. Stan slips into bed, snuggling deep in the covers, his scent slowly coiling around me, enveloping me in blanket of comfort. I sigh deeply, then pause…

Because he _does _smell like Wendy.

Jealousy spears my heart, and in its wake, anger. Turning, I "accidentally" whack him across the face with my arm.

"Ow, dude!" He howls, springing up and clicking on his lamp. "What the hell was that?"

No use in feigning sleep now. Sitting up, I turn on him, releasing every ounce of anger I feel. "What have you been doing all night long?"

"What do you think?" He shoots back.

"Wendy!" I scream. "You've been doing Wendy all night long! Stan, how could you?"

"Kyle, I wasn't "doing" Wendy, alright?" He's clearly irritated with me, but I can't help myself. I'm pissed at him for it. I thought he had better sense than that. "Even if I was, what do you care? Guys are suppose to congratulate crap like that, high five them, and take them out for a beer… or something."

"That's not the point!" I scream. "…A beer, what?" Shaking my head, I dismiss the confusion.

"What is the point, that you're a jealous Dickhole?"

"Whoa, whoa, wait. Jealous?" I verify, continuing at his nod. "What would I have to be jealous of?"

He rolls his eyes. "Oh, please, Kyle. You've been trying to impress Wendy ever since she broke up with me in the fourth grade!"

"Impress _Wendy?" _I honestly can not believe he still thinks that. "Stan, you have it all wrong."

"Do I? Somehow I don't think so."

"God, just forget it! You're too much of a selfish bastard to care that you're a selfish bastard!"

"What? That doesn't make any sense!"

Throwing myself back, I cover up and turn away from him. "Just shut up and go to sleep. This is the last time I stay over with you."

I hear the light click off, and then silent as he makes himself comfortable again. "We're getting too old for this, anyway."

"Huh?" I face him again. Acid starts accumulating in my stomach, warning me.

"It's just," he looks around, an uncomfortable expression on his face. "Kenny and Cartman stopped sleeping over years ago."

I consider this for a moment, realizing he's right. "So?"

"So… maybe it's just kinda gay that _we _still are." Staring at him, I wonder if this is all a nightmare. "I mean, people might start to wonder about us, you know?"

My face screws up in anger. "No, I _don't _know, Stan. Unless you're worried I'm gonna reach over and molest you like you did to me."

"_What!" _

Something about his gawking, paranoid expression satisfies me in the most sickening way. At least I know now that he remembers it.

"Dude, we were twelve!" He wails. I cross my arms. "I was only showing you what to do because obviously you were bad at it!"

"I was doing just fine on my own!"

"Yeah, watching me." The way he says it sends a deep sense of dread into the air. "If I remember correctly, you started your pathetic little wank job while you were watching me, and then couldn't even control yourself when I tried to show you a better way to do it, so I got screwed into getting you off instead of you doing it yourself."

My mouth hangs open, cheeks flushed with heat. "That is the most bullshit logic I have ever heard!"

"There's no other logic to it." He informs me.

"What are you saying?"

I can tell he's mad, not only by his expression and hurtful words, but also in the way he won't look at me. "I'm saying, maybe Cartman's right. Maybe you are a fag."

I never knew you could actually ever _feel _your heart break, but Stan brings me to whole new levels of pleasure and pain, that's for damn sure. "You were the one touching me! Maybe _you're _the fag!"

"Yeah, well I didn't hear any objections! It sounded more like 'Ooooh, _God, _Stan yeeeesss!' to me!"

The covers fly off of me, landing over his head, and I roll out of bed with all the energy of a four month old monkey.

"What are you doing?" He demands, watching from his bed, looking torn and outraged.

"I'm running for congress, what does it look like I'm doing?" I hiss, sarcasm dripping from my fangs. One leg is shoved into my pants, then the other. I grab my hat.

Stan throws the covers to the side and joins me in the middle of the room. "You can't just leave!" He spreads his arms wide, looking helpless and pleading.

"I can do whatever the hell I want!"

"But it's cold and dark." He nags.

"Not as cold and dark as you." I pull on my hat and stuff my hands into my gloves. "Screw you, Stan. I'm going home."

* * *

_-BratChild3_


	3. Mind Love Making

**Authors Note: **Well, this took forever. I'm sure no one remembers this fic or really gives a crap, but hey.. I want to finish it, so... Onward I go. :)

* * *

**Chapter 3- Mind Love-Making**

****

I'm pissed through the weekend and refuse to answer Stan's phone calls or acknowledge his presence when he comes to the door. Luckily my mom hadn't been around to answer, and my dad and Ike are just plain too lazy to care.

Yesterday I timed him. He stayed on the doorstep for exactly forty-three minutes and eleven seconds, knocking profoundly and demanding I open up because "I know you're in there, ass licker!" I ate my sandwich quietly and secretly relished the fact that his weekend was being wasted on me, even if he wasn't actually _with _me. At this point, I figured that any attention was good, because it meant he still remembered who the hell I was and, most importantly, that he cared.

Monday, I'm sitting by my locker, writing out the report due third period. I feel a presence to my right, and a quick glace at the shoes confirm it's the ass wipe. I'm still mad, rightfully in my opinion, and so I go back to my paper. The only thing I have to say to him are four letter words, anyway.

"Kyle, can I talk to you?"

I finish writing out a sentence. "Why?" He watches as I begin scratching my pen across the paper again.

"Because, dude!" He exclaims, as if that explains everything in its entirety. I don't say anything, so he goes on. "We're best friends and you ignored me all weekend because of a stupid little fight."

I snort, eyes never leaving my homework. "It wasn't a stupid little fight." I argue. "You called me a fag."

It's got to be the worst insult to be thrown at an adolescent boy, especially when he's harboring thoughts that could be considered borderline gay. It's one of those 'hit too close to home' things, and that's not cool.

"Cartman calls you a fag all the time." He reasons.

"_Cartman,"_ I remind him, cringing at the foul taste the name conjures. "is a self-righteous bastard. _You _are suppose to be my friend."

"Kyle, I _am _your friend." He whines, sounding helpless and pathetic and just a bit pleading.

Snapping my notebook closed, I shove that along with my pen and textbook into my book bag and stand. I want to believe him, but I just can't. "Then I guess we don't have the same idea of what friendship should be."

Worry lines crease the normally smooth skin between his eyes. Looking at him, I can see circles under his eyes and obvious fatigue in his stance; His hat is leaning to one side.

"Kyle, _please," _his lower lip trembles. "you're my best f-friend."

How many times have I heard him say that? I realize I can't even begin to count the number of times he's reminded me just how important I am to him and where I rank on his list of friends; The Best. In Stan's eyes, no one can measure up to me. He's chosen me, out of everyone else, as his very favorite. In all honesty, I view him in the exact same light. But how many times have I told him so? Once? Twice? A handful at the very most. He reminds me all the time, every chance he can.

I feel guilty, and I don't like feeling that way. It's why I never do anything wrong, and If I do, I have to make it right. My heart trips over itself as I stare into his eyes. Two large, sparkling orbs of deep blue begging for understanding.

"Could you guys get a fucking room or something? _Jesus_."

The spell is broken, and we both glower at our "friend"… _thing. _

"What the hell do you want, fat ass?"

"I want you two fags to quit making love with each other in your minds, It's gonna make me puke!"

"We're not making love-"

"Anymore." I cut in, finishing off Stan's sentence. He blinks at me, and then his eyes go wide.

"_WHAT!"_

"… Come again?" Cartman asks, one eyebrow arched high on his head.

Opening my locker, I shove everything I don't need for first period inside. "I broke it off last Friday." I slam the locker closed, then face Cartman. "He was suppose to _spend the night _with me, but he snuck out with Wendy instead." Stan looks mortified at my emphasis, because it does sound _really, really gay. _But that was the point; to embarrass him. "So I told him to shove it up his ass." I look Cartman straight in the eyes, making sure he knows I'm serious as shit, and then shoot Stan a look. "There'll be no more 'mind love-making' in the hall."

The bell sounds through the corridor, signaling us to get our asses to class, _now. _No one makes a move, no one says a word, because they're both too shocked at my outburst, so I take the initiative.

"See you later, assholes."

Lowering Stan to asshole level with Cartman; the ultimate blow. I'm torn between feeling awful and feeling satisfaction. Their eyes burn into the back of my head as I walk away, and to show them I meant it, I hold up my hand and flip them off.

-------------------------

Stan isn't sitting with me today, just like he didn't sit with me yesterday, and just like he probably wont sit with me tomorrow, because he's too busy sitting with _Wendy. _The weird part is that it's not like he's ditching me to sit at _her _table, because she left her friends behind too. No… they just want to be alone, and I don't get that. Maybe it's like the times I feel like I want to kill Cartman and Kenny so that they can't bug me and Stan. But what is there to disturb between him and Wendy really, besides Stan's flying chunks of vomit?

Even Bebe came up and punched me in the arm today. It hurt. When I asked her why, she said; "That's for getting Stan and Wendy back together, asshole!" I feel bad for her. She must miss Wendy as much as I miss Stan.

I also wonder if she's as grossed out by their public displays of affection as I am. Which they aren't even trying to tone down. Shit, they were making out hard core in the hallway just this morning. It made me punch my locker and now there's a dent on the front and a scab across my knuckles.

I've been trying not to look at them now, even though they're sitting in clear view. I'm afraid I might see something I don't want to see, like… I don't know exactly. It's not like they're going to hump each other right here in the cafeteria, right?

I glace up, unable to help it. Wendy's thigh, which is bare thanks to her short skirt, is pressed snugly against Stan's. Her hand has crept and smoothed its way to his inner thigh, resting just above his knee. And Stan…

Swallowing a lump in my throat, I blink my eyes, trying to focus them and make the image in front of me disappear. Stan has his own arm wrapped around her delicate little waist and his hand resting on the smooth, bare skin of her thigh. His fingers rub and caress, sneaking their way slowly upward. They're so touchy with each other. I wonder if they've had sex…

As soon as I think it, I cringe visibly.

Damnit, my stomach hurts. I'm sure shoving a double helping of school food down my throat didn't help any either. It feels like maggots are crawling around in there, wiggling and squirming, trying to find their way out my throat.

The thought makes me slap my hands over my mouth and dry heave.

"What's wrong, Jew boy? Normal food not agreeing with your kosher stomach?" Cartman drops his lunch tray in front of mine and sits across the table. Kenny slides in next to me.

"Up yours, fat ass." I recite, so drearily it could hardly pass as an insult. Sighing, I lean my cheek against my palm, hating everything and trying to fight the urged to punch someone.

Kenny pokes my side. "What's wrong, dude?"

I look at him, his eyes concerned, skin pale and dirt ridden, always the sweetheart. I love Kenny, because even though he's a dirty little bastard, his heart is pure as gold. One thing I know without a doubt is that his gentle probing is genuine.

"Stan's a crappy best friend."

There. I said it. And not even out of spite.

Cartman snorts. "You're just now figuring that out?"

"Is not." Kenny argues.

"Is so!" I scream back, not even meaning to spit fire.

Kenny shakes his head, calm and level like always. "Nope. He's just trying to score. You should be supporting it, but you aren't."

Slipping two fingers into his mouth, he gives a short whistle. Stan turns to look, his hand creeping higher up Wendy's thigh. Kenny gives him the thumbs up, making him grin ear to ear, then looks back to me. "Guess your lack of support makes _you_ the crappy best friend."

"I don't remember hearing anyone ask you, Kenny!" I explode. "Chef told us we can't let girls come between friends, or has everyone forgotten but me?"

"Chef's dead." Kenny reminds me.

"… So? Does that mean his words are?"

He finishes chewing, then nods while he swallows. "Yep."

"Kenny!" I shout again. "You of all people should know-"

"That you don't matter once you're dead." I close my mouth, taking in his words, his serious expression. "Kyle, once you're dead, you don't matter among the living." He spreads his arm out, indicating the cafeteria full of live students. "Sure, they may miss you, but you're dead, and they go on doing their own thing in their own way. Chef is a dead guy now. We miss him, but we aren't going to let him control us."

Gaping at him, I shake my head to clear it. "So you're telling me it's okay to let a girl come between you and a friend?"

"No, retard." He corrects, sucking on the straw of his chocolate milk. "I'm saying friends shouldn't come between you and scoring."

I point at him. "I want you to die now."

"No." He rebukes, not even sounding offended.

Cartman hasn't said a word, and I notice, as I look up at him, that his gaze is rendered on Stan and Wendy; eyes narrowed, large fingers squeezing his tiny milk carton. A piece of sugar-brown hair falls over his eye, tickling his lashes and making him blink away from his focus of anger.

"No, Kenny," He muses, his lips tight. "the Jew's right. Public displays of affection should be outlawed. I can hardly eat mah lunch because of that asshole."

Kenny laughs a hearty, muffled laugh, slapping his hand onto the tabletop. "It's not the affection that's making you sick," He grins. "It's Stan pawing the girl you want as your bitch."

Cartman's face, normally a pleasantly pinkish shade of pale, heats up with rage and turns a deep red. His eyes are still and unseeing, round with shock, but his entire body quakes in anger. Then suddenly… it stops. His normal color returns, and chocolate brown eyes cut across the table to Kenny.

"I want you to die now." He repeats my earlier words.

This time, Kenny's smile twists into a frown. "_No."_ Obviously he's a bit more distressed about it this time, but I laugh; because no one would ever really want Kenny dead. Not even Cartman.

My smile dies when I look back toward Stan, because he isn't there anymore, and neither is Wendy. I sigh, poking at my untouched food.

"Kyle?" A hand falls on my shoulder, and I almost bite my tongue when I jump, and then look up, recognizing the intruder as Stan. Sliding his hand across the back of my neck and then down my other arm, he swings his leg over the bench and sits next to me, one leg on each side like he's riding a pony. His knee grazes my thigh. "Still mad at me?"

His eyes look like tanzanite's, and he touches my hand in secret with warm fingers. I shiver, remembering other places they've been.

"I…" The word floats from my lips and hangs in the air like an annoying gnat. Stan leans forward; lips parted slightly, eyebrows knit in concern, so afraid of my answer. I close my mouth, release my breath through my nose, and then I shake my head.

He blinks, expression relaxing, and pulls his hand away from mine to rest on his own thigh. Disappointment wavers over me.

"Thanks, dude." He breathes; smile pleasant now. "I knew you'd understand how important it is for me to be with Wendy now. I already lost her once because I barely talked to her for weeks, and you remember that. That was a bitch. I can't lose her again, dude. I love her. And, honestly…" He looks down at his hands, smiling to himself. "I love spending time with her. I can't stand it when we're apart."

My expression resembles that of a person whose just sucked on a sour orange. I expected sweet and got a mouthful of shit.

Fuck I hate this.

"You're a fucking faggot, dude." Cartman sneers his opinion in Stan's face, trying to look tough but failing in my eyes. He hasn't touched his food, which tells me he's more bothered by this than even _I _am.

"Oh yeah?" Stan shoots back, sounding more "cute" than threatening. "We'll see who the faggot is after this weekend, when Wendy spends the night with me alone."

The three of us gasp in unison, sounding similar to the way we had the first time we saw Terrance and Phillip on the silver screen and heard their colorful brand of name-calling. Only this time, the chorus was lacking Stan.

"Wendy is not going to spend the night at your house." Cartman decides, sounding unconvinced.

"You're right," Stan agrees, making me feel better for only a second. "She's going to stay in my bed, too."

"No _way_."

"Yeah, she is, you ass licker!"

"You gonna make her scream?" Kenny asks, openly curious about it all.

Chuckling, Stan nods. "Shit, dude, I hope so."

"Okay Stan, fifty bucks says you won't get in her pants this weekend." The fat ass is determined to be proven right on this matter, for reasons I don't think Stan is quite grasping.

"It's a pretty safe bet considering _she's _the one who never could keep her hands and lips off me and still can't, you bloated, goat-fucking whale!"

"AYE!!!"

"-But I still wont bet on it because it's none of your goddamn business what the hell I do with Wendy. I was telling Kyle, not you, so stay the hell out of it!"

_I don't want you to tell me about it… _I think, fighting the bile rising in my throat and trying to smile and mean it all at once.

"You can tell me about it, too, I wanna know." Kenny mumbles, eagerly including himself in this particular topic.

"It doesn't matter, Kenny, it's just a bunch of lies anyway." Cartman assures.

"So? I know he's seen her boobs, so the description will be accurate."

I can feel Stan tense next to me; feel the heat of his growing agitation. His teeth ground together and his fists ball. "God, SHUT UP!" He yells. "I don't think I want to tell either of you anything because all you want is a story to jack off to in the shower!"

"No, I'll do it right here while you tell me." Kenny clarifies. His tone of voice means he's not kidding, and I know I'll run as fast as I fucking can if I hear a zipper because that's not something I want to see. I glance toward the exit, glad to see the door standing wide open should I need immediate evacuation.

"I don't want you getting off to Wendy!"

Shaking his head, Kenny loudly sucks the last of his chocolate milk from the bottom of the little cardboard carton. "I'm not just getting off to her, I'm getting off to you screwing her. That's hot, I always knew you'd fuck her good one day. Shit, I would have done it when I was eight. Even then she was all over you." Shoving a plastic fork into his lasagna, he scoops a bite into his mouth and swallows it whole. "You're too late anyway. Already jerked it to her lots of times."

"I jerk it to her five times a day," Cartman chimes in. "Six if mah mom doesn't give me extra dessert that night."

His words are meant to anger Stan, but I know they're true to at least some extent. One time, right after a heated debate between him and Wendy in health class, they were sent to the office and I left shortly after to use the bathroom. When I opened the door, I heard Cartman in one of the stalls, panting and moaning Wendy's name.

I never did go potty. I walked right out and back into class, embarrassingly enough running into Wendy as soon as I left the boys room. I'm just glad he had the decency to do it _in _the stall, otherwise I'd have gone blind from the trauma of witnessing it by sight. Poor Wendy. The fat ass having a boner for you _must_ suck ass.

"Stop talking about my girlfriend that way!" Stan pounds a fist onto the table, shaking me from my memory. Thank God. "She's not just some piece of ass, goddamnit! I love her and she loves me and _that _is my reason for all this besides the fact that she's really, really, really hot and I can't even look at her anymore without getting hard. Got it?"

Kenny breaks out into laughter, but the worms in my stomach are back and squirming even faster than before. I really think I might puke…

"I'm gonna tell her you said that." Cartman's threat is more like a little kid giving their friend forewarning they're about to tattle.

"She already fucking knows!" Stan admits. "Shit, dude, she asked me why I don't puke anymore and I had to tell her the problem is in my pants now. Sometimes she even slaps my ass to _make _it happen."

Way, _way_ too much information, Stan.

A spiteful chuckle bubbles out of Cartman's throat. "Oh, so you're her little bitch then?"

"Even if I was, so what? _Look_ at her."

"Amen." Kenny laughs. "I'd even wear a collar and leash if she let me be her bitch.

"Heh, Yeah…" A smile creeps up Stan's face. The lovesick kind I can never seem to snap him out of no matter what I do.

I'm now rocking back and forth, arms anchored around my stomach and no one even notices. Cartman, of course, isn't happy either. I'm glad for it; glad for _him _for once in my life. He's fighting for me, even if he doesn't know it. Fighting against the Stan-Wendy factor that I hate even though I have no logical reason to. _I'm _the one who got them back together. I just can't remember why now. To make Stan happy… but he already _was _without her. I thought so anyway. He had me. Wasn't that enough?

I sound like a fucking faggot, but I know I'm not, because the idea of Cartman and Kenny jerking don't do anything for me. Naked dudes in the locker room don't do anything for me… It's just Stan and the thought of his hands on himself and his hands on me and the noises he made… I don't want him to share that with Wendy. I don't want him touching her like he touched me. I don't want him to let _her _touch _him _like he touched himself because that, for whatever reason, makes me sick_. Violently_ sick.

"Oh, I see, what happened to '_It's because I love her cuz I'm a fag' _bullshit?" Cartman grunts.

"It's not bullshit," Stan defends himself. "Yeah she's hot, yes she makes me hard every five seconds, but I also love her and I'm going to be with her for the rest of my life. She's _not _just a lay to me. I couldn't just put it in anyone, even if they are hot. That's fucking sick, dude."

I risk a glace at him, trembling when I do, hoping he has the same rules about _touching _just anyone as he does about _sticking it in _someone, because if he does, it means I'm not just _anyone _to him. It means I'm different; special. He catches my eye and grins goofily, making me hot and blush and sick all over again. I look down and focus on a spot of his jeans. What would it be like if he popped a tent every time _I _was around? I hate it that it happens around Wendy, because I don't want her to have that much power over him. But hell, what can I do about it? I mean, even Stan can't do anything about it. Nature is nature and unfortunately we cant help what turns us on.

… Like the way he's rubbing his palms against his thighs, slow and hard. _Fuck, _why the hell does his touch feel so good? If I were him, I'd constantly rub myself in various places too.

"Kyle?"

My eyes snap to his and my stomach flops nervously, churning with acid and wiggly worms. I'm very aware that Four of his fingers are pressing lightly into my knee. I swallow, then bite my lip to keep from screaming or puking or… exploding or something.

"Could I come over later?" He asks, so soft it's nearly a whisper. "There's some things I could… I could really use your advice on."

It comes out shyly, and he keeps his eyes lowered, only looking at me again to await his answer. I realize how intimate this is; here, in the middle of a crowded cafeteria, but at the same time alone in our own world with his hand on my knee and his gaze melting into mine.

My toes curl in pleasure.

"Sure dude." I answer so casually I shock myself.

The bell sounds the same instant his lips form another smile; brought to you by me, thank you very much. And how often does Wendy make him smile?

…Okay… maybe a _whole _lot.

Maybe… even more than I do.

"Thanks Kyle." He pats my knee and then stands, flashing a smile, which I return, until I notice Wendy standing by the door waiting for him.

My grin sours and I crumble back onto the table, ignoring Kenny and Cartman's warnings to "get to class, you fucking Jew!". Instead, I wait until I'm alone, then force myself up and drag my feet all the way to class, hoping I'll be sent to the councilor so I don't have to answer retarded questions about decimals and algebra.

* * *

_-BratChild3_


	4. Tipsy

**Authors Note: **I worry about chapters being too long, but I suppose if you really like a story it wont be a problem. So I hope this story and this chapter is likeable and not too lengthy to hold interest.

Please review. :)

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**Chapter 4- Tipsy**

I'm in a bad mood by the time the last bell rings, because I _wasn't _sent to the counselors office and I _did _have to answer retarded questions about decimals and algebra. And then after that I had to answer more retarded questions, only this time about evolution; which I don't believe in to begin with.

I used to like school…

Okay, so I'm lying. I didn't _like _school, but I was good at it, and I at least had grades to be proud of. Now I don't give a flying, purple monkeys ass because I don't want to go to college and become a lawyer like my dad, anyway. No way. I want to be like _Stan, _my _hero. _A box-licking, carpet-munching, taco eater.

Right.

I don't want to be like either of them anymore. I don't even know what I want. All I know is I want _something, _and this unnamed _something _never lets me rest. It probes and eats at me, but I can't satisfy the craving when I don't even understand what the craving is for.

…So why the fuck do I fucking bother in the first fucking place?

"_Pssst_!"

My eyes widen, knocked out of my own thoughts by the hissing noise.

"Over here, you fucking Jew!" The whisper barks out again, and I'm grabbed by the shirt and pulled backward until my back hits the front of Cartman's warm shirt and I bounce against his fat. We're hidden in a tiny alcove between a locker and a drinking faucet, which gives me little to no room between us. Silently, I send up a prayer of thanks that his old smell of Cheesy Poofs, bologna, and sweat are no longer relevant and that he now always smells like clean laundry and aftershave.

"What the hell-?" I ask, twisting my head to look back at him.

"Shut the hell up!" He snaps, looking past me. Slowly his eyes narrow. "Look."

Beyond the cracked tiled floor seven lockers down is Wendy's; the one with the hippie sticker on the front. Only right now I can't see the hippie sticker because it's decorated at the moment by Wendy herself, pressed helpless against the cold metal as Stan devours her neck. His body presses into hers so deeply they'd look like one figure if it wasn't for the distinction of blue and lilac material.

"What a whore." Cartman breathes from behind, tickling my ear.

The comment makes me scoff. "No kidding. Look at how short that skirt is."

"No, she's nothing but a dirty, grade-A slut, I was talking about Stan."

"Stan's not a whore," I glance back at Cartman, then zero in on the couple again. "He's a _gigolo_."

I don't think I've ever made Cartman laugh, so I'm a little flattered that he does so now, burying his face in my shoulder and snickering loudly at the comment while trying to maintain our low profile.

So this is what is was like to be Cartman; to be on the outside looking in on the great relationships he can never have. No wonder he's such a dick. Crude comments are probably the only thing he has to keep him going. God knows it's all I have to make me feel better right now, since I don't have my best friend.

Sadly, I don't even know why it bugs me so much about Stan. I don't even _know _what I need to make me feel better. I know I wouldn't be happy if they broke up, because then he'd be miserable again and it breaks my heart to see him that way.

And of course, _I _didn't want to be the one he was pressing up against the locker, because that would just be gay.

"Son of a bitch," Cartman growls, his fingers digging into my shoulders. That's weird. I hadn't even realized he was holding on to me. "They might as well drop their pants and have sex right there!"

The thought angers me, because I know it's true. With his hands groping her ass, and hers wedged deep in his front pockets doing Abraham-knows-what between their tightly pressed together bodies, it's a no-brainer he's going to bang her this weekend.

…And there's not a goddamn thing I can do about it.

"It's… actually kinda… hot." Though I say it aloud, I'm talking to myself. I never knew you could get turned-on by something you also couldn't tolerate, but here I am, about to sprout a springer if I watch too much longer.

"The hell it is!" Cartman explodes, so loud I hear it ricochet off the metal of the too close locker. His fingers embed themselves even further into my flesh.

I let out a strangled cry, almost buckling under the pressure. "Ow Cartman, you're hurting-"

"It's an insult to God and they need to be stopped!" He continues, never mind my pain, and hurls me into the hall, then thunders straight for them. In a millisecond, I catch my balance and chase on his heals, actually eager to be included in whatever he's about to do.

My heart races as we get closer, and I feel excited in a dangerous sort of way.

Cartman slows a little, falling into pace with me. I make the stupid mistake of thinking he's being courteous for once in his pathetic life and grin at him. I feel especially good when I realize I've outgrown him by an inch or so; we've been having a height war since the sixth grade. For a long time I was afraid I'd inherited my mom's short genes along with my stupid red hair. I'm glad it's officially not true. In fact, I've kept a steady height with Stan since… _forever_, which is kinda weird.

_And Cartman's smiling at me…_

Something's wrong, because Cartman never smiles at _me. _My instincts kick in too late; he grabs hold of the back of my shirt a few feet from the ebony haired couple and, just like a game of human bowling, jerks me back and then shoves me as hard as he possibly can. I smack directly into Stan and we both hit the floor, almost taking Wendy along with us.

"Oh my God! Cartman, you asshole!" She shrieks.

"Bitch." He replies calmly.

I'm stuck on top of Stan, my thigh pressed between his and I'm too shocked to think anything of it. Wendy dips down and gently helps me back up. "Are you okay, Kyle?"

"God Wendy, you're such a slut. Why don't you just star in a gang bang, you stupid whore?" Cartman snorts.

Looks can't kill, but she certainly tries with the glare she shoots him. Instead of arguing back, she ducks beside Stan, who's had the wind knocked completely out of him.

"Stan?"

I kneel next to his other side, letting Cartman glower in all his contempt at us, and pull Stan up by a fistful of his shirt. "Breathe, damnit!" I slap his back, making him gasp deeply. The color returns to his face.

Wendy touches his cheek. "Are you okay?"

He stares at her a moment, then suddenly; "BLAH!"

"_Ew!" _She screams, jumping back and letting the barf fall onto the ground. Then she laughs, because it's just like old times.

"Sorry." He apologizes, looking completely embarrassed.

"Mmm, damn baby!" Kenny appears behind Wendy, getting a nice eyeful of her ass in the air since she's bent down toward Stan. She jerks upright, spinning on her heel.

"God, you're such a pervert!"

This does nothing to throw him off. Instead, his eyes widen and zero in on her shirt, which is now wet with Stan's barf and almost completely transparent. Wendy looks down, gasps, and folds her arms over them.

"Aw, c'mon, let me see them." He whines.

"She'll do more than let you see them for a nickel." Cartman advertises.

"_FUCK YOU FATASS!!!_" She screams so loudly it echos through the hall, and then she storms away so quickly, all we see is the exit door slamming closed behind her.

"Oh, thanks a lot, assholes! Christ, you guys are fucking stupid sometimes!" Stan hisses, then chases after her.

"Yeah, well it's not our fault your girlfriends a little hooker bitch!" Cartman yells at him.

I shake my head. "Grow up, fat fuck." I ignore his string of insults and find Wendy and Stan under a tree in the school yard; her arms are still covering her chest and her eyes are on her shoes. Stan's talking too softly for me to hear.

"Babe?" He asks as I approach, and touches her arm.

She jerks away, turning to face away from him. She seems mad, but I can't help but think that she's crying. "I hate your fucking friends, Stan!"

Her words sting me a little bit, but if she has anything against me, I don't know about it. So I don't take it personally, because at the moment at least, I know she means Kenny and especially Cartman.

Stan looks at me, unsure what to do and looking for help. I frown.

"Wendy, hey," I inch closer to her. She keeps her back toward me and Stan moves away, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"I'm sorry if I've got anything to do with how angry you are right now; and I apologize for Kenny too. I know he's a pervert,"

"A dirty little bastard!" She corrects. I look at Stan. He blinks.

"…Right. You're right." I agree quickly. "You're an easy target because you hang out with his friend. I know it's annoying, but he can't help it. I don't blame him Wendy; you're so _pretty._"

Admitting this stabs icily at my heart. I want to find reasons she isn't good for Stan, not reasons he's lucky to be with her. But it seems to be working. I hear her sniff and she turns to face me, the anger and tears slowly dying.

I know exactly how she feels.

"Me and Kenny, we don't mean any harm. But I won't apologize for Cartman, because I know that he does. You have every right to be mad at him, but please, don't be mad at Stan for it. He's always sticking up for you when Cartman puts you down." I take a risky chance and put my hand on her shoulder. "I know how you feel. That fat fuck has picked on me my whole life, too. Jew boy, kosher breath, Jesus killer… _day walker._ It never ends and sometimes I want to rip his nuts off and shove them down his throat so he'll shut the hell up."

She laughs musically, which makes Stan smile. I swallow back jealousy.

"You can't let him get to you any deeper than casual irritation; he just isn't worth it. Besides, you're way too pretty to be doing that to your eyes." I point out, indicating how puffy and red she's made them with tears. She smiles again. "You aren't any of those things he says. Stan knows that. Isn't that what matters?"

Their gazes melt into each other; deep blue surrendering to baby blue. My heart lurches painfully, and I wish that it wouldn't.

"Thanks, Kyle." She beams, then apologizes to Stan and is once again folded into his arms. She buries her face in his chest and he rests his chin on the crown of her head, smiling at me as he mouths, "Thank you."

I smile back, but it's watered down and broken. I wander back inside to get my backpack and wonder what it'd be like if Stan puked on me.

Somehow, I think that it would be nice.

* * *

I haven't seen Stan all week, other than in between classes.

I never went to his house Monday, and I don't know where the hell he's been every night. With Wendy, I had originally thought, until yesterday when I saw her at Benny's with Bebe and _without _him. I don't know what's going on; only that he hasn't been around.

So tonight I'm sitting on the curb outside the gas station with Kenny and Butters and the giant slurpies we bought in the mini mart. We're trying to determine which of us is the biggest pussy by how well we can handle massive brain freeze.

So far, I'm losing.

"Oh, Christmas!" Butters wails, literally slapping his frozen head.

Kenny snickers at him and I suck deeply on my straw. The pain starts out lightly at first, but I keep on drinking until it's unbearable. When I stop, it gets even worse. The cup drops from my hands, splattering all over the street and my shoes as I grab my head.

"_Ow! Ow! Ow!" _I stomp my feet and nearly rip out my hair in total agony, sending Kenny and Butters into an uproar of laughter.

After courteously waiting for me to settle down, it's someone else's turn. Kenny takes his pain expertly; tensing up as it gets bad and then slowly relaxing as it dims. Clearly, he's the winner.

And me; I'm the biggest pussy. Just like Cartman always said I was.

Butters watches the champion take on his fourth turn, jaw slightly open in awe. He looks down at his own slurpie, then scowls at it and tosses it to the ground. The cup rolls away and the rest splatters and swirls with mine, which has already started to melt. "Dumb old brain freeze."

There's a victory grin on Kenny's face. Luckily he isn't the boasting kind and doesn't rub in in our faces like Cartman would. The fat fucking piece of…

"C'mon." Kenny taps Butters on the shoulder and stands. He's a good citizen, dumping the remainder of his treat in the garbage where it belongs instead of on the curb. It makes me feel sloppy. "Let's go fill condoms with Kool-Aid and throw them at cars."

Kenny always has the best ideas. Yesterday we hid in a tree until a group of girls (which included my old heartbreak; Rebecca) went passed and then we flung globs of vanilla pudding at them. They thought it was bird crap and screamed so loud they couldn't even hear us busting up over how freaked out they were. Kenny laughed so hard he fell off his branch and crack his head open on the concrete. Butters cried.

"Well, I-I dunno, Kenny," He mumbles now, rubbing the back of his neck. He's frowning and watching his slurpie cup roll across the parking lot. "Last time we did that I accidentally hit my dads car and then I got- got grounded."

"That's what you get for not recognizing your own dads car." Kenny points out. I push myself up and brush the dirt from my ass.

"Quit being such a whinny little baby and come throw condoms with us."

"There you go!" Kenny beams, clapping me on the back and then wrapping his arm around my shoulders as we head off.

Butters crosses his arms and pouts for approximately five seconds, then decides he _will_ join us in a Trojan war.

"Hey'a fellas, wait up!" He shrieks, breaking into a dead run. Kenny does wait for him, slipping his other arm around his shoulders.

There's a strip club and bar across the street; exactly why we were hanging around that particular corner in the first place. Kenny wanted to see "bewbs", and figured maybe a drunk stripper would wander out naked. We did see lots of women come in and out, but none of them were dressed in anything too revealing. Kenny was irritated, but I was only half interested in the first place. I was too worried that Stan hated me to care about boobs right now. In fact, most of the time I'm too busy _with_ Stan or _thinking_ about Stan to care about boobs anyway.

We cross the street and slow down when we approach the club. Following Kenny's lead, we press our faces against the glass and try to peek through the windows. I can't see anything, only blackness. The curtains they put up and keep closed are navy blue and too thick to see through.

And I don't care.

"Goddamnit!" Kenny pounds his fists on the glass. It doesn't even rattle. "Why do they keep _curtains _up during the day? It's too dark to see through!"

"Wah- well, it's ta protect kids like us from seein' naughty things." Butters explains, meshing his knuckles together.

"You're such a fag, Butters." Kenny accuses. He's still trying to see through a tiny slit in the curtain and I pretend I'm still interested too. "It's a crime is what it is."

I roll my eyes and sigh, fogging up the glass. "It's suppose to be a _good _thing." I feel Kenny shoot me a look. "Dude, if you jack it any more I think it might fall off."

He thinks about this, then chuckles heartily, because he knows it's true. Butters laughs along with him, but I doubt he understands what's so funny, _or _what "jack it" means. I'm not amused; I'm unconsciously coloring in the fog my breath left on the window and pretending to want to see naked girls as badly as my friends do. But I _don't _and that bothers me a little bit.

_Stan, _I think suddenly and blink at my creation. _I wrote Stan's name. _

"Hey, I see a boob!" Butters yells, making me jump. "Oh, wait… it's just- just a peanut bug on the window. S-someone squished it," he mumbles to himself. "Ew, it's all gooey."

I look at Kenny, who rolls his eyes and curses under his breath. I can't say I blame him. Stan is the most laid back guy I know and even _he _gets pissed off at how naïve Butters can be. But Kenny, though clearly exasperated and clearly Butters' complete opposite, can't seem to stop himself from hanging around him all the time.

"Maybe I can peek in the door," Kenny muses. As he reaches for the handle, it flies open from the inside, knocking him onto his ass.

"Kenny! Oh, jeez!" Butters yelps, falling to his knee's beside the other blonde.

"Hey asshole! Why don't you watch-" My words break off, the breath knocked from my lungs. I blink twice to make sure I'm seeing things right, because my heart doesn't believe what my eyes are showing me. There, in the doorway, is none other than Stan, leaning against the handle and peering at us through dark bangs.

"_Stan?!_"

A slow grin creeps up his face. "_Kyle_." He pronounces it sly and devilishly.

My throat makes a small noise; a shocked and at-a-loss-for-words noise. "What… what the _hell _are you doing in there?!"

I wonder if he can sense my jealousy through the shock; and then I wonder why I'm jealous in the first place.

He shrugs. "Stuff."

"Dude, no way!" Kenny makes a full recovery, springing to his feet. "How'd you get in?"

Stan hiccups. "This's South Park." His eyes are still on me, burning into mine, and I wonder why he's smiling that way.

"I can't believe you've been holding out on us!" Kenny screams, but it's excitement. He rubs his hands together, like a spider about to wrap up a fly. "Lets go, Butters."

"Mah-me?" He points to himself, eyes wide.

"No, the little gay wad that lives up my ass; _Yes _I mean _you_."

"Gosh, I-" Kenny grabs his hand, pulling him forcefully through the door. "Oh, Gee!"

I don't even glance at them as they disappear behind Stan, but I can hear Kenny whoop, "Woohoo!"

Stan moves forward, letting the door swing shut. It creates a waft of air that puffs at his hair.

"Kyle," He says again, inching toward me. His hand finds my shoulder, and the smell of alcohol carries off his breath. It makes my heart sink into my stomach and go sour.

"You've been _drinking _in a _strip club?!" _I rip his hand away from me and nearly make him lose his balance. I wish he'd fall and hit his head.

"Pfft! _No_." He flicks his wrist at me with a short laugh. "Was a few Shirley Temples."

"Shirley Temples _don't have alcohol in them, Stan, _But you do! I can smell it on your breath!"

The smile he sports evaporates in a blink. "Huh? But… they told me- told me it wasn't…"

"They told you _wrong._" I snap. God, I want to slap him. "That's what you fucking get for trusting a fifty-cent hooker, you dumb shit."

Stan hiccups, then squeezes his eyes closed and whines.

Sighing, I roll my own heavenward and pull his arm across my shoulder's.

_Just in case he loses his balance, _I tell myself. But he doesn't even really seem too drunk; he's just a little on the overly-relaxed and silly side.

"Let's get you home." He expels another breath, making my stomach churn from the stench. I pinch my nose with my free hand. "And maybe we'll stop and buy you something nice and smelly on the way, like Funyons. That fucking stinks, dude."

This makes him laugh, and I don't know why.

* * *

Stan is, for some reason, _happy _to see my bed.

"Hi beeeeed!" He drawls, diving into the covers and hugging my pillow.

Initially, I had thought the smart thing to do would have been to take him back to his own house, because his parents are stupider than mine and they probably wouldn't even realize he was tipsy. But then I thought about how it was possible Wendy might show up over there, and how her wrath would be a _whole _lot scarier than my moms.

"You smell like Kyle," he tells my pillow, face still buried in its softness.

"Stan?"

He turns his head, peeking at me with one eye. "Kyle, c'mere and smell this."

"Uh, no thanks."

"It's _kosher." _He temps.

"That's nice." I sit on the edge of my mattress, warding off the smile that comes when he sits up and wraps his arms around my neck. He rests his chin on my shoulder and his torso crushes into my back. I can feel each breath he takes.

"Dude," I sigh. "What the _hell _were you doing in that place? We're suppose to be the moral ones. I thought you had better sense than that." He buries his face in my shoulder. "I _thought _you were 'in love' with Wendy."

"_Wendy…_" He practically moans against my skin. A mixture of butterflies and acid fill my stomach. But then Stan's warmth leaves me as he lets himself fall back against my mountain of pillows and blankets. "I was in there _for _Wendy. It's all for her."

"Wendy's a stripper?"

Stan breaks out in a fit of laughter, which suddenly dies. "Damn, that'd be hot."

For some reason, this makes me angry. "Just tell me why you were in there. What's wrong, porno isn't enough any more?"

"Dude, I _told _you; it's for Wendy." Stan leans up and scoots over next to me. He keeps his eyes to the side, I keep mine on the floor. "I-" He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, then lets his hand fall to his thigh. I wish I could fold it into mine. "I'm learning how to strip dance."

My eyebrows furrow in confusion. I look up at him, and then he turns to meet my gaze.

"Bullshit," I cough, even though somehow I already believe he's telling the truth. "You mean to tell me you've been hanging out with a stripper _just _to learn how to dance for _Wendy_?"

"You don't believe me?"

I scoff, even though what I'm about to say stings my heart. "I've seen you, Stan. You love sexual pleasure way too much to ignore a half naked slut dancing around for you to 'learn'."

He blinks, taking a moment to absorb my expression, then grins when he realizes I'm serious. "_Kyle!_" He laughs. "It's a _male _strip club!"

"… Is not."

"Yeah, dude, it is!" His teeth are a white slash against his skin, which is still lightly tanned from last summer. "I'm not gonna learn how to strip like a girl, that'd be totally gay."

The blue of his eyes are too _intense _for me to look at right now, so I focus on his banner that reads "Go Cows!" instead.

"But then that means Kenny-"

"Either ran out blinded and screaming or is gonna start playing for the other team." He snickers.

I throw him a look and get stuck when I do.

_Did he move closer?_

I decide I _like_ the intensity of his eyes and how strongly it makes me feel something that I can't even begin to explain. "You are _not _learning how to strip dance."

He pauses, expression unsure. "What do you mean I'm not? _Yeah, _I _am._"

"No way," I shake my head and let out a small laugh. "You can dance, Stan, everyone knows that. But come on, you're too shy about love and sex to do something like that around a stranger. It makes you sick."

"I'm totally over that."

I laugh again.

"You actually think I'd cheat on Wendy?" He looks completely crushed; completely outraged. "On _anyone_?"

I can't contain my smile any longer. The thought of him stripping makes my stomach tickle and expel bubbly laughter out my throat.

"Fine!" He barks over my giggles. "You don't believe me?! I'll prove it!"

"S-Stan," I laugh out, clutching my stomach. I reach out to him as he stands to cross the room, but I'm too crippled by mirth to stop him.

My neatly organized row of CDs are violated as he tears through them and picks something suitable. When he puts it in, the room is filled with a sensual beat.

"Sit in that chair." He points at the one tucked into my desk.

My laughter dies. "Stan-"

"I said sit!" He repeats, pulling it out and turning it to face me. "right now."

Part of me feels a little guilty, because part of me was hoping he _would _show me what he's learned if only I insisted I didn't believe him. But I do. He's the most honest person I know.

As I get up to fulfill his demand, my heart starts pounding in time with the music.

_Stan is going to strip for me…_

_Stan is going to strip for me…_

_Stan is going to… oh my fucking God!_

"Stan, you don't have to-" I'm shoved into the chair. "Really, I believe you!"

"I need to know If I'm any good anyways," He insists.

Since he's willing to show me, I may as well let him. I mean, that's what a real friend should do, right?

Fuck, I hope I can stand it.

Stan flicks his bangs out of his face again. He needs a trim, and he's still a little tipsy.

"Stan?"

"Shhh," He whispers. "You'll screw up my groove."

A smile tugs one corner of my mouth. I think that he's nervous, and maybe even a little embarrassed. I know I'd be. But, Jews have no rhythm.

Marsh's, on the other hand, know _exactly _how to move their bodies.

At first he starts moving his hips, then his shoulders, just getting into the mood of it. And at first, I'm holding back another round of stomach-tickling giggles.

Then his eyes lock with mine, holding, boring deeply into them. My breath catches. His movements are more fluid and animated when he starts up again. I try to keep my eyes on his face.

I swear, I'm _trying!_

He circles his hips; wide, big movements and his fingers crawl down his abs to the hem of his shirt. His palms rub up and down his body, causing the material to bunch and unbunch, giving me glimpses of his bare chest and stomach, all in harmony with the enticing tempo of the music.

I swallow thickly, noticing my mouth has gone dry. His pants are loose and sit just below the thick band of his boxers. The shirt comes off, landing squarely in my face. I let it fall into my lap, thankful almost to tears for it, because like it or not… I'm _hard_.

He continues to move, his dancing slow and bewitching, bringing my attention to each curve of his body. His fingers sneak to his solid, square belt buckle, which has his name engraved on it. I grab the arms of my chair and squeeze when I hear the sliver metal click and he yanks the entire thing from the belt loops.

_Thank you, shirt, for landing in my lap…_

My heart stops, then plummets, because he's moving toward me; closer and closer. My pulse escalates in my wrists and I can feel myself start to throb down below. He doesn't stop until he's standing with both legs on either side of the chair, directly over my lap. His crotch is eye level with me, and _God _I want to touch him there.

His hips are still moving, thrusting up and back, his entire body making sensual S's almost against my face. He unbuttons his pants, forcing me to choke back a moan deep in my throat, and he unzips just as slowly, just as teasingly as every other movement he's made. I can't seem to pull my eyes away; I want too badly to bury my face and mouth between the now parted material. He runs his hands down his nipples, over his torso, across the soft bulge that's almost exposed, but still way too covered up for my taste.

_I want to touch him, oh _God, _I want to touch him…_

Like he's read my mind, he grabs both my hands and presses them on either side of his belly button, then starts moving them slowly downward, all the while keeping steady eye contact. The touch sends a jolt of electricity through my entire body, sparking even more life into the front of my pants.

My breathing is quick and shallow, throat dry, heart practically exploding in my chest (not to mention other things that may soon explode). He guides my hands beneath his pants but on top of his boxers, mere inches from the particular place I'd like a nice handful of. His palm caresses the back of my hand, and I once again have to stifle a moan. And then…

…He stops.

I swallow dryly and stare up at him, my hands still on his body and my breath coming out in ragged pants through my open mouth. His hands fall away, but he doesn't bother moving mine.

Neither do I.

"This is the part I'd let Wendy start touching me however she wants and the rest will come naturally, but that'd be totally gay with you, so…"

My hands fall into my lap. There's a dejected frown on my face; I wish I could conceal my emotions better.

He steps back, re-zipping and buttoning his pants. "So what'd you think? Will it turn her on?"

My heart starts throbbing again, only painfully this time. Hard, thumping beats against razor sharp ribs.

"What do you mean 'will it turn her on'?!" I explode, jumping to my feet. "How the _fuck_ am I suppose to know?!"

Ignoring his confused expression, I slam out of the room and trudge straight through the house until I'm outside. I walk quickly, my shoes crunching loudly in the hardened snow. I'm shaking, and I feel so angry; so _stupid. _I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know why I'm so mad at him. I just _am_ and the only thing I know for sure is that I don't want to be around anyone right now, not even myself, because I feel helpless and hollow and I don't know why.

It's not until I get back home two hours later that I realize I have tears frozen down my cheeks.

---

**To be continued...**

* * *

_BratChild3_


	5. Playing for Cartman

**Authors Note: **Special thanks to KyleisGod for helping out with some Cartman-lines. ;) And thanks to everyone who reviewed. I hope you continue to like it... got big plans for this story. More reviews, sooner it gets done cause I'll be eager, and the sooner I can work on Dreams, Rain, Go Insane again. :P Nah, not bribing you, but I'd love to know what you think.

* * *

**Chapter 5- Playing for Cartman**

Stan said nothing about his little "performance", and I never brought it up again. I don't know if he even remembered; He was asleep when I had gotten back home, snoring loudly and woke up with a bad headache the next morning. I think he had been more intoxicated than I originally thought. I guess some people don't get all that crazy when they're drunk, like the media tries to make you believe.

So it's been a week, and that _helpless _feeling is still there, but it doesn't feel like my chest is going to collapse…

Most of the time.

Stan never did get his weekend alone with Wendy. I think the story I made up about a serial killer that had escaped from death row and was at large around Aspen, where the Marsh's were destined to spend their weekend, _may _have had something to do with it. And _maybe _Cartman slashing their tires and stealing their check book and credit cards was part of the reason they cancelled. Only it actually didn't do anything except buy more time, because they're now having their weekend get away _next _weekend.

Stan couldn't be happier, and I'm just trying to think of anything else in the whole world that might keep the Marsh's from ever going anywhere again in their lives. I want to stop it from happening, but how can you stop the inevitable? If Stan and Wendy are going to stay together, eventually they're going to screw around.

_But it kills me…_

Ignoring the pain in my chest the best I can, I close my eyes and turn my face upward, feeling sunlight warm my skin. I tell myself it'll be alright. I remind myself to _breathe._

"Ball!"

The moment the word blares out, I'm pummeled in the side of the head. The pain is sharp and immediate, shooting through my entire body.

"I _said_ ball." Cartman snorts.

I can feel him beside me, only my head is spinning with too many stars to see him. And then there's warmth against my arm and Stan's voice.

"Why do you always have to pick on Kyle?"

"Time!" Someone in the distance yells. I think it's Craig.

"Why do you always have to _mollycoddle _Kyle?" Cartman retorts. "God, maybe if he'd get his head out of his ass and pay attention once in a goddamn while, he would have seen it coming!"

"Christ, you're such a bastard!" Stan wails.

"Marsh, Cartman, Broflovski!" I hear the gym teacher, Mr. Riser, scream out our names, even though he's only about six feet away by this point. "What in Sam Hill is the problem?"

"Cartman hit Kyle in the head with the ball." Stan tattles openly. "_Again."_

"_I'm_ _sorry Kahl_…" He apologizes in a taunting, singsong sort of way, rolling his eyes with disinterest.

My hand is on my head, and I pull it away with bloody fingers.

"You made him bleed, asshole!" Stan's outraged cry startles both me and Cartman, and we both jump slightly.

"Marsh," Mr. Riser points at him. "Save that passion for the game. You should be calm off the field. _Cartman_!" He barks at the snickering boy. "You know the drill. Get Broflovski to the nurse. Pronto. I want you back on this field in five minutes or you will receive a failing grade."

Cartman flips him the bird the second his back is turned, cursing profoundly beneath his breath. Stan's face is so close to mine I can count individual lashes, and his fingers are still curled around my forearm.

"You alright, Ky?"

When he calls me that, when he looks at me, my world, my everything… is perfect. I feel myself shiver against a gust of wind and blindly touch my bloody hair.

"He's _fahn_." Cartman cuts in, slamming his body into Stan's and knocking him away from me. "Lets go, Jew."

"It's okay." I smile weakly at Stan, keeping eye contact for a moment even after I begin trailing behind fat fuck. He stands, one lone figure watching carefully until we disappear inside the building, ready to pounce the moment Cartman tries anything else. But I honestly don't think Cartman would ever _really _hurt me, or he'd have done it by now. Plus, I've taken him on in many fights before.

"We've got to do something, Kahl!" He springs on me the moment the door closes, cornering me against the wall.

"What the-"

"Lets just skip all the bullshitting around." He waves his hands in front of me, as if erasing every hard feeling between us. His eyes are wide with something that resembles concern and panic. "You hate me and I hate you. But right now Kahl, we need each other."

"I don't need _you._" I laugh. His eyebrows furrow.

"Do you want Stan screwing around with Wendy next weekend?"

My stomach flops at the reminder, and the feeling reflects on my face.

"That's what I thought." He begins pacing up and back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I don't say things like this to people; but Kahl," He pauses, looks at me with a sigh. His eyes are sad, and that's something I've never seen there before. My heart immediately goes out to him. "Kahl, we can't… we can't let it happen. _Please, _I-" He sighs again, wracking his fingers through his hair.

There's been so many times I've trusted Cartman. Too many. Every time it has been fake, his emotions hadn't been real. I always want to give him the benefit of the doubt and I don't know why. Part of me cares about him a lot, because in a way, he _is _my friend, and as much as I hate to see him happy, I can't stand it when he's sad, either; when he's honestly, _truly _sad. _Not _when he's being the deceitful bastard he usually is.

"…Y-you've got to help me stop it."

"Cartman," My voice is gentle, something that normally only happens when I talk to Stan. I never have _personally_ _emotional _talks with anybody else. "what can we do? Really? Are we going to continue to slash Stan's parents car tires every weekend?" His eyes flash with something I might consider guilt if it were anybody else. "nuke every form of birth control within a thousand mile radius so that they'll be too nervous to do anything together?"

"You're telling me you're okay with this?" He counters. "You're telling me you're just going to let it happen and do _nothing_?!"

"There's nothing we _can _do, short of killing one of them or misleading them with lies to break them apart!" Cartman's eyes brighten at the idea. "NO!" I scream. "I wont do it!"

"Why not!? You hate it as much as I do! I've seen the way you look at him lately, Kahl!"

It's that feeling you get in your gut when you hit a drop on a roller coaster; that weightless, airless feeling. My voice is unusually high when I speak again. "I haven't looked at him any differently." I tell myself as much as I tell Cartman, not admitting to either of us that his words scare me.

A lot.

"Are you _seriously?!_" I stare at him, lips parted slightly. My knees feel weak, and not in the good way, like Stan makes them feel. "Jesus… you really-" he laughs, in total disbelief. "you're really _that _stupid!"

"Fuck you, Cartman!"

"Okay," He holds his hands up again, stopping me from flying past him. "But I've got a plan."

I freeze; interested though I shouldn't be. Cartman's plans are evil and corrupt, but I'm desperate, and he's a mastermind at getting what he wants. For once in probably our entire lives, we both want the same thing. If he can help me get that, why shouldn't I at least hear him out?

"And you think this plan of yours will work?"

"Of course it will, asshole. My plans always work until _you _get in the way." I scowl at the remark, but manage to hold my tongue. "I need your help because you have Stan's full trust."

"Yeah, and you don't." I point out, just because it makes me feel better. Cartman mutters something darkly about the holocaust. "So what exactly am I suppose to do?" I ignore it.

His anger melts instantly. "Well you know, they can't have sex if they aren't physically together."

"No shit."

Cartman's anger resurfaces. "Just save the attitude, you whiny little pussy, I'm not here to battle your PMS!" I remain quiet, silently fuming as he continues. "Stan said he was going to see her this weekend. I say we invite Stan over Friday night, right?"

"Right." I agree.

"We bring him down to mah basement and distract him with video games."

"Yeah…?" I smile, getting more into the idea.

"He's got a _huge boner _for video games. We can make him play all night until he's nice and tired."

"_Yeah…?"_ My smile widens.

Cartman holds his hands up, looking around like he's making sure no one snuck in; he smirks when he's sure it's safe. "Then, I knock him out with a baseball bat, tie him up, and cut his dick off. then-"

I blink. "_What?"_

He pauses a moment. "I said; we cut his-"

"I heard what you said!" His expression goes blank. "We are _not_ going to cut his dick off!"

"…_Pleeeeease?" _He folds his hands together like he's praying.

"_NO!"_

"Why not?!" He thunders. "You're not going to get to use it anyway."

"_Shut up, fat ass!"_

"You want to play with it and that's the reason you don't want me to cut it off, isn't it, Kahl?"

"_WE'RE NOT GOING TO CUT HIS DICK OFF AND THAT'S ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW!!!"_

"Fahn! That's _fahn_!" He decides, as if I'm a huge baby and he's the mature one giving in to my tantrum. I may be throwing a tizzy, but he's fucking _insane. _"Then what if you just talked him out of it?"

"Stan's a guy and it's going to be really hard to talk him out of sex, retard. Why don't you just scare _Wendy _out of it?"

"Tried it." He assures. "I don't think it worked. They're still all over each other. Maybe it'll sink in before she does anything too graphic, but I'm not willing to take chances on a gamble like that, are you?"

His eyes are so sincere; so honest. Dammit, I'm believing him again, aren't I? I'm being sucked into his world of never-ending lies and manipulation. And still… I can't help it.

"This is really important to you, isn't it?"

"Nothing, Kahl… _nothing _has ever mattered more to me."

I stare at him for a long time, considering it carefully. His expression never wavers; the one of hope and torment. This is killing him, so badly that he's asking, _begging _for my help.

And then I consider my own hopeless, agonized emotions. How terrible it makes me feel inside whenever I see Stan and Wendy together. How badly I wish I could undo what I created in the first place; the thing I wake up and hate myself for every single day. And I think about how good it makes me feel when Stan is with me, and how those moments are rapidly disappearing.

I sigh carefully, my shoulder's sagging in defeat. "You're… _right _Cartman." I look down, seeing Stan's face instead of the floor like I should. "I don't want to lose him and… and I _am_."

My nose starts to sting; I hate myself for needing so badly to cry. I sniff and try to stay in contact with my anger, because it's the only thing that'll keep me from breaking down.

"Stan will listen to you," Cartman assures. "He trusts you more than any other person in the whole world." For some reason he looks like the words leave a foul taste in his mouth. "I know he'll at least _consider _what you have to say. He always thinks about _you _first."

Cartman has never made me feel so good in my life. I needed that boost; that reminder that no matter what, I _am _Stan's best friend.

"You've just got to make it good," He goes on. "Just remind him how painful and bloody it's gonna be for Wendy. And be graphic. Talk in detail about STD's and how they can end up with malicious little bastard babies sucking at her titties in no time."

"But what if that doesn't work?" I frown and try hard not to envision that last scenario.

"That's why you always have to have a Plan B." He grins.

"Plan B?" I repeat. He nods. "Okay. So what's plan B?"

"This is gonna be hard," he pauses for dramatic effect. All it does is makes me feel impatient. "you're going to have to lie."

"Lie?"

"Lie." He confirms. "To Stan."

_Oh God… _

I feel my throat constrict painfully. "I… I can't _lie _to _Stan._"

"Sure you can." He encourages. "It's easy."

"Maybe for _you!" _My throat is starting to get scratchy from yelling so much. "I've only lied to him once in my entire life, for that stupid egg project in Mrs. Garrison's class, and I felt horrible the entire time! I can't go the rest of my life that way!"

"Can you go the rest of your life _without _him?" Cartman asks. "Can you honestly be happy watching them together, knowing what they're doing behind closed doors? Can you really stand up there by him and be best man at his wedding one day? Will you be able to sleep at night knowing _she's _curled up in his arms and he's not even giving you a second thought? Can you, Kahl? Because I _can't._"

Why does he have to make such a good point? I never even considered the fact that I might one day have to listen to Stan pledging his soul to Wendy forever. What would that _do _to me?

I'd die. I would _die _of a broken heart if I had to endure it.

"That wont happen." I don't recognize the determination in my own voice; it's been solemn and broken for so many weeks. "I can't…" I look up into Cartman's eyes. "I couldn't stand to let that happen."

"Then what's one little lie going to hurt?" He asks. "You're just going to have to make up a story about how Wendy went down on you behind the cafeteria when he was absent last week."

"_WHA-"_

His hand crashes against my mouth, startling me silent. "Shut the _fuck _up, Broflovski!" He hiss-whispers. His brown eyes burn wickedly into mine. "It's the only way! He'll take your word for it, Kyle!"

I pull his hand off, keeping a firm grasp on it so he can't plug me up again. "Yeah, and he'll also get pissed at me for it!"

"No he won't. Just tell him you were testing her to make sure she wasn't whoring around behind his back."

"Why can't I just say I saw her with you?!"

"You can't tell him that. Then he'll hate _me._"

I scowl. "What the hell do you care?"

"I _don't, _but don't you think he'd think I put you up to it if you use my name?"

_Silence._

"If you're going to be such a pussy about it, then use someone else's name, like Craig or that black asshole, Token. He already hates _them_."

"Okay." I agree, then realized he just talked me into lying to Stan and completely sabotaging his relationship with the only person he's ever loved. And for some reason… I'm eager to do it.

Cartman pats my shoulder, his smile proud and every bit as determined as the one I give back. "Don't let me down."

And for once in my life, I want nothing more than to help Cartman win.

* * *

The nurse checks my head and sends me back out in less than five minutes. Just a minor bruise to my left temple. Even though it broke the skin, it wasn't even bad enough for a band aid. 

When I get back on the field, I feel something good inside, and I return Stan's smile, this time with genuine happiness. The grass feels thick and alive beneath my shoes. I run hard, play hard, throw the ball further than I ever have in my life.

"Damn, dude," Stan catches up with me between plays, out of breath. Sweat beads across his forehead. "What's gotten into you? Pretending the ball is Cartman's face?"

I laugh, realizing how out of breath I am myself. "Not exactly."

He watches me, smiling as I take my turn to bat. He's supposed to be the catcher, but when I miss a hit, he _doesn't _catch it. Every time I look at him, he's crouched down like he's ready to play, only he's too busy watching me.

He's impressed that I'm playing so well. Hell, _I'm _impressed; I fucking hate baseball. But I have to admit that having all of his attention directed at me for once is a welcome change. I wonder if he watches this intently when he comes to my basketball games. I know that when I watch him play football, my eyes stick to him the entire time. Being completely honest, football's okay, but I don't really give a shit about it. I'm never there to watch the _game_.

Apparently I'm so unfocused I can't even pay attention to the sport I'm in the middle of now, because the ball comes at me so quickly I don't even have time to flinch; still, I somehow manage to hit it dead-on, sending it reeling through the sky.

"Whoa, dude!" Stan shouts, and I beam, completely caught up in how well I've impressed him. "Damn, Kyle, you kick ass!"

"What are you doing?!" I hear Cartman scream at me. "Run, you stupid Jew!"

I drop the bat, breaking into a dead run from where I stand. My blood sugar is low and it makes me feel weak, but I can hear Stan cheering me on, which makes my heart swell and my legs pump faster.

Nearing second base, there's a loud whistle off in the distance, and Stan's encouraging shouts abruptly stop. I glance back, only to find him running across the field toward Wendy, who's appeared out of nowhere and is standing where the grass and blacktop meet. I stop dead in my tracks, ignoring everyone screaming and insulting me for messing up a rare hit like that. But I don't care. They can _suck my balls, _I still don't give a shit.

Stan's arms slide around Wendy; I cross mine over my chest and feel my face screw up in hatred. Craig runs to my side, shoving me with both hands. My feet stay cemented to the ground.

"What the hell, Kyle?! We could have _won_!"

I snort, feeling hot air puff out my nose like a pissed-off bull.

"Goddammit!" He raves again, tossing his baseball cap to the ground and kicking up dust as he walks away.

I'm unaffected by his words, because I'm too affected by the sound of Stan and Wendy's laughter carrying off the wind and swirling all around me. That used to be me he laughed with; it used to be me he ran off the field in the middle of games for. _I _used to make him that happy.

Craig is still cussing up a storm somewhere in the distance, and Cartman appears behind me; suddenly, slowly, like a snake slithering and sneaking toward its pray. He places both of his hands on my shoulders, understanding why I stopped.

He _gets _it. He gets _me_.

"You hate him right now, don't you Kahl?" His voice is like warm poison, seeping into my ears, tainting my mind. And I think that maybe I _do _hate him. Maybe… just a little…

"Think about how he's making you feel right now," He squeezes my shoulders as Stan kisses Wendy and then starts back toward us. "It isn't the first time and it sure as shit isn't going to be the last. Not as long as he keeps the skank around. He cares about her more than he does about you. Actually, I think he's starting to care _less_ about you. It's so obvious." My fists ball and I peel back my lips, grinding my teeth together. "End it, and you'll never have to feel this way again."

Maybe it's the anger thinking for me, but he's right. He's absolutely, positively, one hundred percent right. Wendy stole _everything _from me. And yeah, Stan _is _everything to me. I don't even care if that sounds gay, it's the fucking truth. I'm not complete without him, and I've been without him far too often recently. It needs to be stopped; something needs to be done.

"Good Jew." Cartman pats my head like a dog who's just brought him slippers, shuffling off before I can hiss a reply. Stan reaches me just as the bell rings, smiling like the perverted, love-sick, dick hole he is.

"Ky, you were awesome!" He claps me on the shoulder. "How do you feel?"

I look at him; just stare, my eyes wide and wounded. My heart aches, and he doesn't have a clue how incredibly lonely I am when he isn't with me; like a part of my soul is missing.

"…Incomplete." I finally answer, and it's the only answer I can come up with.

He's confused for a moment, and then he smiles again, letting his hand drop away. I close my eyes, hating the feeling off losing that physical contact.

"Don't worry. You'll make it around all the bases next time. At least it's just gym class."

I let out a small laugh that sounds something between a scoff, a sigh, and maybe even a sob as he starts for the locker room.

He's so oblivious he just doesn't understand; I wasn't even talking about gym class.

**---**

**To Be Continued...**

* * *

_-BratChild3_


	6. Overflow

**Authors Note: **Totally did not want to wait this long for an update, but hey, stuff happens you know? Stupid paying job. This chapter is pretty long though.

There's a few of you who review to EVERY SINGLE CHAPTER. I know who you are and I appreciate you very, very much. XD Lurkers, don't be shy.

* * *

**Chapter Six- Overflow**

It's almost completely dark outside, and I still haven't made it home from school.

Stan never walks with me anymore. He walks Wendy home first and hangs out for a while, like he used to do with me, and _then _goes home.

Wendy invites me along all the time, and I have bitten the bait a few times; once for cake and twice for cookies. Her mom is a diabetic, like me, and she's always baking stuff with that fake sugar to satisfy her sweet tooth. I had a good time, I have to admit. Wendy is really cool to hang out with, and they never made me feel like I was a third wheel. But the truth was I couldn't bear seeing all the little glances and touches they shared. I've gently declined every invitation since then.

Which is why I'm so late getting home, because I wanted to talk to Stan. _Alone._ The only way it was possible was to go to his house and wait for him to come back. I guess it would've made better sense to just call him later on, but I wanted to see him; wanted to see his eyes, his _smile._

And most importantly, I had to somehow work up the guts to go along with the promise I made to Cartman.

I was so nervous about the possibility of actually lying to my best friend that I was already sweaty by the time I got there. I sat on his porch, chin in my palms and waited for what seemed like forever. I paced up and down the walkway like a caged tiger; then I was back on the porch. I repeated this as the sun started fading away, rehearsing line by line, over and over what I'd say to him. If I was lucky, and I hoped my Jew gold was, he'd simply listen to reason and _not _have sex with her. In fact, I was sure he'd listen to me. Why wouldn't he? I had faith in Stan and his faith in me. In the end, I wouldn't _have _to lie.

…Only he never showed up.

As the sky darkened to a deep green along the horizon, my excitement cooled along with my body temperature. Who was I kidding, anyway? I probably wouldn't even see Stan in the next week to talk to him about it, and by then it'd be too late. He wouldn't be a virgin anymore, and the thought of him doing that with Wendy repulsed me to the point of nausea. Even worse because I knew he'd _tell _me all about it; with graphic detail.

Sometimes being the best friend isn't such a sweet deal. At least not when you were feeling so crazed about him having a girlfriend and freaked out whenever they touched each other.

…So now I'm walking down the street, alone, like I've been finding myself a lot these days. I keep my head down, but as I pass the corner where the new fast food place is, the smell of burgers wafts around me, making my stomach rumble loudly. I pause, glancing inside the building through the clear, glass door.

My mom has a plate of food waiting for me at home. She always makes me eat, no matter how much trouble I'm in. Judging by the starkness of stars against the black sky, I'm in a deeper pile of shit than I'll ever manage to shovel myself out of.

I glance at my watch; Seven fifty-eight.

She is going to be _pissed._

Reaching into my pocket, I fish around for change and come up with a handful of coins. The silver surfaces glint in in the artificial street light as I spread them over my palm with my thumb and quickly add up the sum. One dollar and thirty-five cents in quarters and a few dimes, plus the extra three bucks rolled up and stuffed into my back pocket. I take another breath of fast-food air, feeling my blood sugar drop another notch.

Well, fuck her. I don't care if she screams at me and I don't want her fucking kosher food anyway. We're American's for Christ's sake; I want a goddamn burger and some goddamn fries.

I shove the door open with more enforcement than required, disturbing the bell tied to the handle, and proudly order myself a burger, fries, and an extra large soda. I hesitate when the girl behind the counter asks me what kind I'd like, and stare at the colorful labels of each fountain drink that I've only gotten little sips of from Stan and Kenny.

Gaining independence from my overbearing mother is a beautiful thing, but putting myself in a diabetic coma is hardly what I'd consider a smart rebellion, even though I really, _really _want an ass-load of sugar right now.

…_Fuck it. _

I decide to take it to the extreme and order an extra thick milkshake instead.

My food is ready by the time I pay and she fills my cup with soft, creamy chocolate. I take it to the very back corner table, not feeling like being looked at by any of the other guests, or listening to them talk about their fucked-up day.

I only get half way through my french-fries before I hear someone shout my name over the low rumble of voices.

Glancing up, straw in my mouth, I recognize Kenny among the few strangers, making his way toward my table with a smile. Or what I can _see _of his smile, which is mostly just the way his eyes squint into the shape of orange slices. I wave him over and smile back, happy to see a friendly face.

"Where's your other half?" He asks, referring to Stan, and slides into seat across the table from me.

I shrug, stuffing another french-fry into my mouth. "Don't know. Don't care." I lie. "You?"

"On my way home from Butters' house." He eyes my food. "Could I…?"

Without another word, I slide the fries to the middle of the table. "You've been spending a lot of time with him lately."

"Butters?" His mouth is already stuffed full. He's really hungry again tonight.

I nod. "Yeah."

"Mmm," He acknowledges. "Best friends."

I frown, puzzled at the statement. "Since when? I thought Cartman was your best friend."

"You thought _wrong._" He points at my cup. I nod and let him pull that over to his side as well. "I don't know for how long. I guess since we clicked and started hanging out all the time, even without you guys there."

"What… makes you best friends?" I wonder, curious to know if it's the same reasons as me and Stan, or if there's something different there. "I mean, what makes Butters special?"

"He's so… honest, you know? He's into the same things I am. I just have a filthy mind about it and he has a pure one."

He pauses to suck on the straw, burping loudly after a few swallows. "It's like those cartoons, where they have a conscience, and one's a devil and one's an angel? Butters is the angel, and I'm… well…" He laughs, managing to pull another smile out of me.

"We're the perfect balance for each other. He keeps me out of too much trouble, and I keep his life from being incredibly dull."

I look out the window, seeing nothing there but my own reflection. "Must be nice."

"Mmm?" He grunts, mouth full again.

"Having a balance in your life." I clarify, blinking away from the reflective glass. "It must be nice."

"You off balance, Kyle?" He smiles at me, somehow amused by it. I shake my head sadly and stare down at my burger. I'm not hungry anymore.

"You have… no idea."

I can feel him look at me; actually _look _for the first time tonight. He stops chewing for a moment, then swallows and folds his hands against the table top.

"Kyle?" I glance up at him. "What's up?"

Kenny is someone I know I could probably tell anything to. I don't think he'd laugh; I don't think he'd be repulsed. He just might not _get _it.

I look back at my reflection, realizing that whenever I need someone all I get is myself. My best friend is gone. Maybe I need to start accepting that.

"You can tell me," He urges. "you know it'd never leave this table."

I open my mouth, wanting to talk, but not quite sure where to begin. There's so much I could say. But I realize… I don't _want _to. Part of me just wants to stew in my own self pity for a while, and the other part of me is fighting with itself, trying to convince me that breaking Stan and Wendy apart by any means is the best possible thing for all of us.

"I can't… can't tell you Kenny." He looks hurt, so I elaborate. "It's too confusing right now. I don't want to tell you about it and have it come out wrong. I don't want to give you the wrong impression about things because I haven't exactly figured it out."

"Isn't that the whole idea of talking to someone?" He asks. "To help you figure stuff out?"

I rub the side of my head, which has a swollen knot from the baseball earlier, and consider it. "I don't know, Kenny. I guess I just… don't feel like digging into it right now."

He nods, tapping the table twice with the flat of his hand. "Alright. If you need a friend, I'm your guy. For now I should get home. You coming?"

I shake my head and watch him slide out of the booth, then I look down at my food. I've only taken two bites of my burger, but whatever appetite I had is long gone. Besides, he needs it more than I do.

"Take this with you," I hold it out to him, making him freeze in place. His eyes collide with mine, flickering with appreciation. It makes my heart hurt to know offering partly eaten, cold food makes him happy. I want better for my friends than that.

"Thanks, Kyle." He takes it carefully, pausing to flash me another hidden smile, and I watch him until he slips out the door and darkness swallows him up.

Once again, I'm all alone.

The plain black clock on the wall clicks to 8:20 just as I look up at it. It's really getting late, but I still don't feel like going home. I wonder if Stan ever made it back.

I pull my abandon milkshake toward me and take a long drag on the straw, filling my mouth with thick, frozen chocolate. I mush it with my tongue before swallowing, savoring every grain of sugar I can.

God, this stuff kicks ass.

I suck the straw deeper and longer, feeling my stomach get cold as it fills with the frozen dessert, and I don't even care about the brain freeze this time.

A few more long drags and I press my hands to my temples as a sharp pain envelops my head. "…_Oooow!"_

…_Or maybe I do._

"Kyle!"

I look up habitually, dropping my hands to the table. Stan maneuvers through various tables and chairs, making his way toward my booth. I hide a smile behind another sip of milkshake.

"Goddamnit," he mutters, shoving a stray chair out of his path and stepping over a kids meal toy someone abandon on the floor, then comes to a halt when a particularly overweight woman backs out of her seat right in front of him.

"_S'cuse _me," He recites, sounding terribly annoyed. My amusement increases another notch. He was raised with good manners, but sometimes he's polite in the rudest way, I swear.

After "excusing" himself, he practically pushes the women out of the way and stomps over to me.

"Hey, Stan." I smile, not at all put off by his mood and secretly hoping it's because of Wendy. After all, he's _never_ mad at _me_.

In response, he slams a fist onto the table, eyes blazing into mine. "What the _fuck _do you think you're doing?!"

…Of course, there's a first time for everything.

My smile pops with a blink. "Huh?"

"My parents told me they got a call from _your _mom, wondering if we'd seen you! No one knew where the hell you were and nobody's seen you since school let out, _Kyle!_ I was worried out of my fucking mind!"

He is _pissed; _yelling, screaming at me, something he never, ever does. But I don't think he's letting lose, don't think it's as bad as it would be if we weren't in public. His hands are shaking, face red, and I know that he's holding back.

"Stan,"

"Christ, what the hell is wrong with you?!" He demands wildly, not even noticing all the people staring at us. "It's not like you to disappear! I checked everywhere! Even that goddamn tree house we built when we were kids! I couldn't fucking find you Kyle!"

"_Stan_?"

"-I've been looking for two goddamn, miserable, fucking hours!"

"_Stan_!!!" I grab his hand, breaking off his rant, making him look at me rather than through me. "I'm okay."

His eyes are wide, terrified. We stare at each other; me bewildered, him torn between anger, worry, and paranoia. I squeeze his hand.

"I'm alright." I say again, quieter.

Stan collapses into the booth, falling next to me rather than in the seat across the table. His shoulder's sag in relief and he rests his forehead in his hands.

"I thought something happened to you," He speaks softly now, raking fingers through his bangs and making them stick up everywhere. "I thought I lost my best friend."

"I'm sorry, Stan." He looks at me; deeply, wholly, and I wish that he'd never stop. I try to lock his gaze into mine so he can't pull his eyes away, thinking I can somehow entrance him.

"Where the hell have you been?" He breathes, sounding almost close to tears.

"…I was waiting on your porch until you got back. Only you never showed up."

"Dude, you knew I was with Wendy."

My eyebrows furrow. "Yeah, I did. And if you did anything besides ram your tongue down her throat, you would have found me on your porch a long ass time ago."

His eyes flash, but not with anger. With something I can't quite identify. "…I do more than just that."

"No, Stan, you really don't." I argue gently. He looks down, breaking eye contact; breaking my heart. "But we've already had that fight before." I shrug it off and shift restlessly in the booth, not wanting to fight with him any longer. "I have… something else I need to tell you."

"Yeah?" He's studying his hands, but he's not really seeing them.

"Something about…" I start, hesitating; wondering if I really, truly want to fuck things up for him. I look down at my shaking hands, swallow back dread, and decide for once that I don't want to let Cartman down. "… S-something about …Wendy."

His head jerks up at the name and he stares at me again. It makes me feel weird, this time because his expression changed.

"…Okay." He practically whispers, twisting his fingers together. I recognize this; Apprehension. Something is making him uneasy.

"We should start heading back. Get you home," He says. "You can tell me on the way."

Carefully, I study him, willing him to look at me again. But he doesn't. Something about him is off, but for now I let it go.

"…Kay."

He slides out of the booth, me following suit behind him, then grabs my milkshake.

"Don't forget your…" He pauses, frowning in puzzlement, and then shakes the cup like a bell. He can feel the thickness.

_Uh oh…_

The lid is pried off, revealing a tiny wasteland of frozen diabetic nightmare.

"…Milkshake?" He murmurs to himself. "KYLE!"

I flash him a huge, uncensored smile that tells him I know I've been a bad boy and I'm damn pleased with myself. He lets out a short, choked sigh of defeat and then shakes his head with a small laugh.

"Damn you." He playfully smacks his palm against my forehead to let me know it was a retarded thing I'd done, then takes a long drag on the straw.

"It's double thick." I inform him when he seems to be having difficulty slurping it up. I pull it toward me and suck it up with ease.

He blinks, watching my mouth with piqued interest. "…Damn, Kyle. It's too bad you're not a girl; you could put that talent to good use."

I pull the straw away from my mouth, feeling my heart thud beneath my ribs, and unconsciously wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "… On you?"

He smiles brilliantly, and I find I'm holding my breath in anticipation of the answer. But he only laughs and claps me on the back. "C'mon."

I toss the rest into the open trash can on the way out, and can't help but wonder what our relationship would be if I _were _a girl.

* * *

Stan avoids all conversation of Wendy throughout the walk home. I thought that's what I'd wanted all along, but all it does is raise my suspicion and I wonder _why _he isn't going on and on about her like he normally does.

Instead, he pulls out a pack of poppers that Kenny gave him earlier, and we snap them at each others shoes in a war that lasts less than two minutes. Once the laughter dies out, he talks to me about school and basketball, about Kenny and Butters and how entertained they keep each other, about the stars and all the weird thoughts that go through his head when he stares at them, and about how he's getting sick of football because everyone thinks he wants to go pro and how he'd rather saw off his own balls first.

Mostly I just listen, and it makes me feel like I'm at peace for once. All this attention, conversation, connection; it's so good I almost burst with happiness. I _am _still his best friend, and by the way he smiles at me, gives my shoulder little touches, I can tell that he's missed me, too. And that kind of _almost _makes up for it all.

But I haven't forgotten what I need to do. Once I have, it could be like this again. _All the time._

When we get back to my house, he confronts my parents for me and makes up a story about how I went with him to study at Wendy's. He tells them that he promised me he'd call them right after he called his own parents to let them know where we were, and that it'd slipped his mind since we were studying so hard. He says that if they were mad at anyone, it should be at him.

My mom tells him how good of him it is to own up to his short-comings and insists he stay and have dinner with me, which was keeping warm in the oven.

"Stan?" I whisper over our bowls of rice and chicken, then glance toward the living room to make sure they're still absorbed in television. "Why'd you cover for me?"

"You're my best friend." His breath disturbs the steam rising from his plate, making it swirl toward me. "Besides, I owe you one for covering for me when I snuck out with Wendy a few weeks ago."

"Thanks, dude."

He switches the subject again, but I don't care, because right now it's just me and Stan laughing and eating, kicking at each other under the table like some sort of twisted, macho form of footsie. For a while, I'm able to forget all about Wendy, and sex, and how mixed up I've been. But it doesn't last.

We wash off our dishes and put them away, then climb the stairs to my room. I close the door behind him, and then another staring contest evolves.

"What did you want to tell me about Wendy?" He finally asks, dread snaking back into his voice.

"Is everything okay between you two?" I ask in return.

He swallows and nods. "Yeah. It is. It's just… kind of hard to talk about with you. Especially now that…" He trails off, picking invisible lint off his shirt.

I eye him up and down. "Especially now that _what_?"

A smile cuts across his face. A _guilty _smile. "Nothing, Ky. It's just hard because I know you feel like she replaced you."

"And she didn't?"

"_No_."

I'm glad he didn't even have to think about the answer to that, but I'm thrown off again by the intensity of those eyes, and the fact that he's hiding something. He's never been able to keep things from me very well.

I circle around him and peer out my window, letting it go because I know he'll eventually crack. He always does.

"I just wanted to tell you again how I feel about this; even though I know you don't want to hear it. Sex is a big thing, Stan. I know that sounds gay, but it's true. We've learned the hard way too many times that following what everyone else is doing because it's cool is just plain retarded."

"That's not the reason, Kyle."

I frown, feeling that pain in my stomach again. He's not suppose to argue about it. He's suppose to _agree._ Cartman told me to scare him, and maybe I'm going to have to. I turn to face him.

"And what about STD's? Syphilis, herpes, AIDS?" I fire at him, waving my hands dramatically in the air.

"This is Wendy, okay? Not an infected whore." He answers coolly, and I can tell he's trying not to get offended on her behalf.

"It doesn't matter!" I wail. "How do you know she hasn't been with anyone else?"

"Because I trust her. Because she's honest with me even when it hurts." He rubs his arm and looks at the carpet.

"Stan! That's stupid!" I shout at him. "Even if she is clean, what about babies?!"

"Babies?" He cocks his head slightly to one side.

"Yeah, babies! That's what sex _is_! The recipe to make a baby!"

"… Dude, sick."

I sigh angrily, rubbing again at the knot on my head. It really hurts.

"Look," He murmurs, coming to stand beside me. "I know you're worried about me, and I'm really, really glad you care about me that much. But I'll be alright. I'm not stupid and I know how to use protection."

"That doesn't always work." I cross my arms, flashing my eyes heavenward.

"What is the real reason you're so upset about this?"

I feel my anger waver a bit, desperateness trying to water it down, but I fight and get it back. "I don't know _what _you're talking about."

"Yeah, you do." He grabs my arm before I can turn away again and forces me to face him. "You don't care if I have sex, Kyle, you care if I have sex with _Wendy._"

The words almost make me lose my balance. It's not suppose to go like this; Stan isn't suppose to have the upper hand in this conversation. I've got to gain back control. And since he's not cooperating with Plan A, He leaves me no choice.

"You know what, Stan? You're right. I _don't _want you to have sex with Wendy." There's a relief that washes over me, and I realize actually saying it, that's it's true. It's not that I didn't want him having sex. I just didn't want him doing it with Wendy. But I wonder; if it were anyone else, would I be okay with it? Who would I be okay with him touching, and really, why did it matter so much to me?

Stan chokes for words, tripping over his tongue and finally comes out with, "Why?"

I turn away again, anger gone, and stare down at my shoes.

_Just say it. _I coach myself. _Tell him you caught her blowing Craig. _

"Kyle?"

I ball my fists and squeeze my eyes, trying to muster up the courage to do this. My palms are perspiring. It's now or never. I spin toward him, reopening my eyes. He looks scared, worried.

"I… saw Wendy…" I manage to get out.

He lowers his chin a little to his chest, raising an inquisitive eyebrow, silently telling me to continue.

My knees start to tremble. "When you were out last week," I swallow back a lump of sick. "I saw Wendy with… I…I" His mouth is formed in a tiny frown, and there's a worry line etched between his brows. He looks… so scared. "I can't do this."

My knees give out and I crumple to my bed. The pressure in my chest releases, and suddenly I can breathe again.

"What the hell is going on?" Stan questions.

I sigh, deciding to come completely clean with him. "Stan, I… was going to lie to you about her. About Wendy."

"Lie to me?"

I'm too much of a coward to look at him right now, so I don't. "Yeah. I had this- this plan with Cartman."

"Cartman?!"

"Please, Stan, I need to say this. I have to confess."

He glares at me. "What were you going to lie to me _about, _Kyle?!"

Nervously, I rub at my arm, but now that my eyes have manage to find his face, I hold it there. "I was suppose to talk you or even scare you out of screwing around with Wendy. And when that didn't work, I had to move to plan B."

"To lie to me." He fills in, scoffing bitterly at my nod. "What, Kyle? What the hell kind of shit were you going to fill my head with?"

I release a long sigh. "I was going to tell you… that I saw Wendy giving Craig a… blowjob behind the school."

What I expected was for him to scream at me, punch me, slam out of the room, and probably even all three. Instead, he stands, silently taking this in, his expression unreadable behind a mask of hard-set lines.

"You have feelings for Wendy, don't you?"

"What? No!" I yelp. "Stan, _no_. I do not want Wendy. I do not _like _Wendy. Fuck, dude, I'm not even _attracted _to her physically! Cartman is!"

"And you expect me to believe you'd go through all this for fatass? Oh, because you're such _great _friends, right?"

"It's more complicated than that." I try to explain, but he isn't hearing any of it.

"I can't believe you, Kyle! You're suppose to be my best friend!"

"I _am _your best friend!"

"Then why would you lie to me about something like that? Why would you lie to me at all?!"

"Because I can't fucking stand it anymore!" I confess on exploding emotions. I spring from the bed and pace madly around the room. "You're always with her all the time. You're always touching and kissing and telling her how fricken wonderful she is all the time! The jealousy is tearing me apart and I can't take it anymore!"

I feel better. Better in the way of relief for coming clean and confessing it all, but not better at all about the situation. There's a foreshadowing dread hanging thick in the air and I'm going to suffocate on it.

"But I couldn't do it, Stan." I plea, unable to take much more of his silence. "I couldn't ever lie to you. I don't even know why I _tried_, I'm just… I've just been so fucked up lately!"

"Dude, Kyle, it's okay."

"No it isn't! It isn't okay!" I deny. "I don't even know who I am anymore!"

Warm arms wrap around me, pulling me close. So fucking close. He hugs me tight, but pulls back right away. He doesn't want to seem _gay._

"It's okay." He promises me, clutching both my shoulders. "I haven't been there for you lately. Part of this is my fault. There's so much pressure right now with tests coming up and all these retarded sports our parents make us do. You've needed someone to talk to and I haven't been there like I should. I'm sorry, dude."

I blink at him, confused again. There's so many emotions swirling through me, and I'm too tired to sort them out.

"Lets just forget this ever happened." He continues. "You don't need to be jealous, Kyle. Lots of girls would go out with you."

_Lots of girls… _

My head spins. Girls? I wasn't jealous that he had a girlfriend and I _didn't. _I was jealous that he had a girlfriend and… what? That I wasn't it? That was crazy.

"You know what would be fun?" He smiles at me, but I only stare, dumbly, in response. "We could go on a double date."

"A double date?" I raise a skeptical eyebrow. "With who? _Not _with Bebe?"

"No, not with Bebe." He puts a finger to his lips, pondering. "I'm sure Wendy could think of someone. Look, I wanted to talk to you about that anyway. Wendy has tickets to the new theme park in Denver and she really wants you to go."

"Why?"

"I don't know. She likes hanging out with you. What's wrong with that?"

I kick bitterly at the floor. "Nothing, I guess."

"Go out on a double date with us. If you have a good time, the four of us can use the tickets. It'll be cool."

I don't _want _to go out on a double date. And I couldn't give two shits about having a girlfriend. I was trying to get something out, trying to make sense of it, and he doesn't get what it was. I don't either. Not exactly. But I do know that getting involved with some girl isn't going to make me feel any better.

"Please?" He begs, and I already know I'm going to give in.

"Goddamnit." I sigh. "Fine, but it'd better not be Bebe."

"It won't." He promises, smile so wide it's practically sticking out of his face. "I'll have the details tomorrow."

"Alright, whatever."

"You'll thank me for this." He swears on the way out.

I slam the door behind him.

Just fucking great. The last thing I need is to add another person into the equation to get mixed up about.

Frustrated, I march to my bed and yank a magazine out of my pillowcase; the one Kenny left here three days ago. The insides are littered with pages and pages of colored images of naked women, all in provocative positions. I'm going to get Stan off my mind if it's the last thing I do.

I flip through, greedily taking in every picture until I find one that seems particularly stimulating. I spread it out on the bed and unzip my pants.

The image easily arouses me, I'm glad to say, and am soon engaged in my own perverse thoughts. The only problem is the way I have to force my thoughts to stay on the picture. When I close my eyes, they wander again to the way it felt the first time I'd been touched.

By Stan.

When I think about it, I've never actually thought _of _Stan, only of the sensations he created in me. It was the fact that I'd had an amazing hand job that got me off. Not the person who'd done it.

Wasn't it?

I pull a picture off my nightstand; Stan and me, arms around each other. Maybe it's time to figure this out better. Maybe it's time to put this question I've been avoiding to rest.

My hands keep up their rhythm, buried inside my open pants, and I take in the image of Stan. His face, his hair, his mouth. I scan down his body, pause on the fly of his pants. The bulge in my own becomes uncomfortably tight, so I pull the confining material away and continue massaging.

Looking back at the image, I picture him turning toward me in the picture, locking his lips against mine. His hand sides across my thighs and then up, teasingly, playfully.

I gasp loudly as the pleasure I'm feeling increases. My free hand moves to the picture, and I run my finger over his body, then close my eyes and replay his strip dance and the way my hands looked sliding down his torso.

A moan escapes my throat, and then one gasping breath after another as I feel myself overflow down and around my fist.

It takes a few moments before I can open my eyes. Panting heavily, I look at my hand, still enclosed around myself, and then down at the picture of me and Stan, which is covering the magazine I was suppose to be looking at. My question had been answered, and there was no way to argue it any longer.

My eyebrows furrow.

"Dammit!"

---

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

Don't you dare leave before you hit that review button. I am so seriously. :P

_-BratChild3_


	7. Thunderstorm

**Authors: ** Thank you guys SO much for the reviews.

Kudos to my boy, KyleisGod, for helping me through. ;)

* * *

**Chapter 7- Thunderstorm:**

"Red."

The name comes out of no where.

I blink at my milk carton and look up at Wendy, who's suddenly appeared at my side, smiling down at me with her tray of school food.

"Red?" I repeat, one eyebrow arching.

Her hair is getting long; I don't know what makes me notice stupid things like this, but I do. On everyone; not just Wendy, and not just girls.

She flicks a strand out of her face and falls onto the bench beside me, setting her tray on the table and adjusts it to make it straight. "Yeah, Red. Stan says you agreed to let me set you up."

"Why Red?" I ask, curious why she'd pick someone like that. I hardly even know her. She's just some girl who's always kinda floated around school with us, almost like a background person on T.V.

"Why not?" She wonders. "I asked, and she thinks you have a totally hot ass."

"_What_?" I'm torn between skepticism and boredom. What is it with girls liking my ass anyway?

I keep my chin in my palm and tinker with my milk straw, wondering if I should ask Stan. After all, _I _never see my ass, but he does. I think.

Wendy nods. "Besides that, she's a daywalker."

She snaps the lid off her juice as my eyes slice to her face, flashing in anger. I can't believe she just said that to me.

"Excuse me?" I snarl. "She's a _what_?"

Wendy breaks into a huge, unapologetic smile, amused at my anger. She thinks it's funny when I get rattled; she likes to provoke it.

_The female version of Cartman,_ I think bitterly.

"You don't like redheads?" She asks.

I glare at her a moment, then blow out a puff of breath and let it go, because I know she honestly doesn't mean anything by it. "I don't want to date someone who looks like me."

"Why? You're really cute." She pops a chip into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Besides, she doesn't really _look _like you. Even your hair is a different shade. She's more of a strawberry blonde."

She's trying to confuse me on purpose, just because she thinks I'll get frustrated and agree. I don't know shit about hair color and what the different shades of red are called, and quite frankly, I don't give a crap.

"That'd just be weird." I decide.

"Oh, damn Kyle, you're right," She replies, licking salt off her lips. "Some people think Stan could be my brother, so I guess I should dump him, because it's _weird. _I can't believe I didn't realize this sooner."

"What?" I ask, mad at myself for feeling a twinge of hope at her words. "No you shouldn't, you make him happy; he makes _you _happy."

She gives me a pointed look. "See how silly it is to overlook someone _just _because they have the same hair color as you? Come on, you're smarter than that."

"I didn't realize my intelligence depended on who I want to go out with and why." I shoot back.

Her spoonful of rice stops midway to her mouth. "So you'll go?"

"Wendy," I sigh. "I _don't _want to go out with Red."

"Told you he wouldn't go for it." I feel the table bump when Stan sits, and my heart springs to life in the same jolt.

I haven't looked at him all day. I've talked to him, but I haven't _looked _at him. I wonder if I appear as guilty as I feel; part of me is ashamed, paranoid for what I'd done last night. But the bigger part of me is afraid how looking at him now will affect me; afraid mostly, I think, that I'll be repulsed.

I experimented into the night and found that thinking about him, not just his body, but _him_; hair, eyes, lips, skin, smile, laugh… _excites _me, and it isn't suppose to. Something is not right in the world of Super Best Friends.

"Okay Stan," Wendy harrumphs. "Since you think you know more about matchmaking than I do, why don't you help me out and tell me who the perfect date for him would be?"

"Okay." He agrees, looking up at me. "So who would the perfect date for you be?"

Wendy kicks at him under the table, making him laugh. "If he had somebody in mind already, _we _wouldn't have to set him up."

"Unless there's something he isn't telling us. Kyle?"

My eyes fall on him out of instinct of hearing my name, my breath catching in my lungs. _Shit, _I think, the fear of repulsion gripping my stomach. My fingers go white from squeezing the edge of the table. I don't want him to make me feel sick; I don't want to be grossed out by my own twisted fantasies.

His gaze paralyzes me. I can't seem to pull my eyes away; I don't even want to. My heart races madly and I swear I feel my brain go numb.

Pictures don't do him justice. He's much better looking face to face. My heart begins to change in tempo, this time more of a hard throb that pleases more than it hurts.

…maybe it's really _not _so bad.

I feel my whole body start to ease up when I notice that he's smiling at me, blinking comfortably, so at ease in my presence. My tight breath leaks out of my lungs; relief washes over me as I adjust to this new revelation.

The truth? I'm _not _repulsed. At all. Not at him or at myself or what I'd thought about us doing together. He was still Stan, I was still Kyle. We were still best friends and the world hadn't ended.

I'm shaking slightly, barely; the aftermath of getting so emotionally worked up. I feel tension leave my neck.

Even if he knew about these thoughts, he probably wouldn't care. He's so laid back about everything, so understanding. That's one thing that makes him my best friend; my _hero_.

I smile to myself thinking about this, and how good fantasizing about him _that way _made me feel. I'm almost a little eager to do it again. …And again, and again, and again…

My toes curl in my shoes.

"Kyle?" He frowns, nudging my shin under the table with his foot. Tingles ripple through me. "Kyle!"

"Huh?" I blink stupidly, unsure of what he'd just asked.

"_Is _there someone you have in mind? I never really noticed this before, but you don't seem really be into anyone."

What the fuck am I suppose to say to that?

I never thought about dating anyone before, because dating is simply hanging out one on one with someone, and whenever I want to go to a game, a party, a movie; I want to go with Stan. I have no room in my life to "date".

I rub my neck, wondering if I should just blurt a random name to make it seem like I've at least thought it over before. The only problem is the fact that the only name I can remember at the moment is "Stan".

"I don't… really have anyone in particular in mind." I answer, opting for the truth instead.

"Didn't think so."

I study him, confused about that. Has he actually wondered if I liked someone? Why didn't he ever ask me?

_Because he doesn't give a shit about your love life, _I bitch at myself. _You're the only pussy agonizing over your friends' relationship. Nobody _normal _does that._

"What about Heidi?" Stan breaks into my thoughts again. I look up at him, watching as he casually puts a cracker sandwich together with the Lunchable he brought. I fight a smile.

"Heidi?" Wendy asks. Funny; I'd almost forgotten she was there.

"Yeah," Stan answers, biting into it. Crumbs fall all over the table. "You were lab partners last semester, weren't you?"

_Heidi? _

_Heidi… _

_Who the fuck is Heidi?! _

I wrack my brain, wildly searching for any familiarity, but all I can find is Stan; Smiling, crying, laughing, playing, moaning, sleeping…

_Get out of my head, asshole!_

I close my eyes, trying to think clearly.

…Heidi.

I knew Heidi.

"…Yeah." I remember. "Yeah, we were lab partners. _Two _semesters in a row."

My heart is throwing itself around wildly again, making it hard to breathe. My face heats up.

_Stop it!_

"Well, since you already kinda know each other, want to go out with her?"

"_Stan_," Wendy drones. "It doesn't work that way. There has to be chemistry."

"Yeah, sure." I agree. "I'll go out with Heidi."

At this point I honestly don't care if it's Bebe or even Rebecca. I just want to get it done and over with and never do it again. I could use the "failed first attempt blues" to reject any more dates. I don't want to be set up; I want it to suddenly knock me on my ass when I least expect it.

I feel my pulse points throb and look at Stan again. I wish _he _cared a little more.

"Don't you even care who you go out with?" Wendy asks, concern wrinkling her forehead.

"Sure I do," I lie. "Heidi's pretty cool for a girl and everything."

Stan laughs. "What is this, the fourth grade?"

"Think about this, Kyle." Wendy cuts in. "Out of everyone, I mean, there's got to be someone else."

"Why?" I ask, not understanding the problem.

She sighs, eyeing me reluctantly. "Heidi is kind of a …two-faced bitch. It's why I don't talk to her anymore. She may seem like all sweetness, but she'll stab you in the back faster than you can turn around."

"And you know this…"

"Because she's done it to me before. Because she's done it to everyone she's come in contact with."

"She seems pretty cool to me." Stan opinionates, receiving another death glare. He's definitely not winning any points today.

"That's because you're a guy, and guys are oblivious, especially to deceit."

"To what?" He smiles cutely.

"God Stan, shut up!" Wendy yells, but she's laughing while she says it. He jounces his eyebrows at her and my stomach tightens violently.

I _really _wish I hadn't seen that random display of playfulness.

"All I'm saying," She announces. "Is that even if you had a good time with her, it'd be fake, because that's what she is; fake."

"This is hard." Stan complains. "Shouldn't it just happen naturally?"

Yeah! Yeah, what _he _said.

"Of course it should," Wendy agrees. "But sometimes romance needs a little kick to get moving."

Stan frowns at her, scratching his head, then kicks my foot; It's not so much rough as it is teasingly. "Feeling romantic yet?"

Laughter bursts from me, but it isn't forced this time, just genuine happiness bubbling out of my throat. I don't know what's gotten into him today. Though he's normally good-natured, there's a lot of _Kenny_ shining through at the moment.

Wendy huffs, though she's desperately trying to hide a smile. Sometimes I wish she'd just relax and let her obvious laid-back side out more often, but that'd only make Stan more crazy about her. Let her be a bitch.

"Well if you're not going to take this seriously-"

"I'm seriouslah." Stan remarks, making his voice husky to sound more fat like Cartman. "Are _you _seriouslah, Kahl?"

Wendy's smile breaks through.

"I'm totally seriouslah, you guhs." I pull my chin into my chest to try and create the illusion of a double chin.

Stan bursts into a fit of laughter. "Dude, no way, you sound almost just like him!"

"Aye! Are you calling me fat? If you don't shut the hell up,

I'll kick you squa in the balls!"

Wendy covers her mouth, then finally succumbs to her humor and laughs along with Stan, who's face is buried in his arms on the table, shoulders shaking with mirth.

A soft smile creeps up my face as I watch him. I can feel my heart swelling inside my chest, inflating like a sponge, being saturated by the sound of his laughter. When he looks up, smiling, he wipes his eyes. I love this; when he brings himself to tears from laughing way too hard. Especially when I'm the cause of it. There's no feeling in the world like making Stan happy.

"Okay, you guys," Wendy says, having collected herself. "Really."

"_Seriously._" Stan emphasizes. I grin at him brightly and watch him melt into another puddle of humor. He's _really _in a good mood today. "Alright, okay." He says, trying to calm himself. "So how about you just go out with Cartman then?"

"Dude, sick!" I yelp. His forehead smacks into the bend of his elbow with another explosion of laughter, slapping the table with the flat of his hand.

"Okay Stan, I think you need to lay off the chocolate milk for a while." Wendy teases affectionately. I'm smiling when she looks at me. "Now that you're in a better mood, you probably wont be so close-minded. So instead of thinking of people in particular, why don't you just explain what you'd generally like in someone?"

That sounded reasonable. What was I interested in? What would _really _crank my chain?

I look again to my best friend. His mouth is screwed up into a squiggle, effects of holding in his amusement. My heart grows another size.

"Dark hair." I decide. "I like dark hair."

"Good, that eliminates Heidi." Wendy mumbles, mostly to herself.

"…And… a nice smile. The kind that you can't help but smile back when you see. Eyes so deep you could drown in them. And… tall. But not too tall. Just… kinda… average tall."

I get stuck a moment, then rip myself away to look at Wendy again. "Uh, you know. Like your height." I rush, just to cover the awkwardness I hope no one but me is feeling.

My cheeks are scorching.

There's a look of deep concentration on Wendy's face; I hope to God she doesn't figure out where I'd gotten all that from.

_Please don't be smart enough to figure it out…_

Suddenly, her eyes brighten with a smile. "I know the perfect person."

* * *

That night, I dream about Stan. 

It starts out normal at first; we're just hanging out at the park, Cartman and Kenny in tow, playing basketball. But something seems wrong, and I can't make a decent shot. The basketball disappears, and then the court. Everything does, in fact; except for Stan.

"Why me?" He asks.

I'm confused. I don't know what he's talking about, but my dream self responds; "I wouldn't know where to begin."

There's an image of Wendy inside his pupils, one that doesn't go away even when he blinks, but it doesn't make me angry. His fingers slide into my palm.

"Are you scared?" He whispers.

I feel myself shudder and then start to tremble. "Terrified."

His arms snake around my shoulders, pressing his forehead against my cheek. I can hear his thoughts; _I'll always keep you safe._

"Can't you make it stop?" He pulls back, looking into my eyes. Wendy is gone from his, but they're now brown; Cartman brown.

"I don't want it to stop." I choke. My fingers tangle themselves in his shirt, trying to keep him close; trying to get _Stan _back.

"But why, Kyle?" His eyes fill to the brim with shiny tears. "Why?"

When he blinks, they roll down his face. I touch them with my fingertips. "You know why."

He presses our faces together, dropping a light kiss on my mouth. "Because," he whispers against my lips.

"This is the way it's suppose to be." We murmur together.

I can taste the saline of my own tears mixed with his before we both fade into the darkness of my unconscious mind.

* * *

I've been looking in the mirror for twenty minutes. 

My eyes are definitely still green; _cosmic _green, as Stan calls them. The surrounding skin is light, but not pale. There's no visible freckles like most redheads have. My nose is small, longer than Stan's, but not as wide. I pull back my lips and look at my teeth; straight and white, maybe just slightly crooked on the bottom, but hardly noticeable.

I'm the same as I always was, I simply know myself better. I don't even feel any different. Probably because it had always been there, I just never _questioned _it before.

Three days.

That's all the time it took for me to accept the fact that I was not straight, gay, or metrosexual. I was _slightly _sexually attracted to girls, but the truth was, I was _more _attracted to guys, and in more ways than just their bodies.

"Bisexual_." _I try the word out on my lips. I don't like it.

It makes it sound like something bad. I pull my eyelids down, inspecting the moist, pink flesh underneath; the way doctors always do to make sure something isn't horribly wrong with you.

…But I haven't just accepted it; I'm not just _okay _with it, I'm _relieved._

I've never been all that comfortable hanging out with girls. It's not that I hated them, it's not that I didn't find them attractive; it was more like I never grew out of my girls-are-okay-but-they're-weird-and-kinda-have-cooties stage.

And now, I never have to worry about trying to figure out what to say to them, or how to impress them, or how to get them to like me. If I want to impress Stan, all I have to do is burp loud enough. I like that kind of low pressure company; although I doubt gas would make him go weak-kneed and want to kiss me.

I let go of my eyelids, letting them snap back in place and decide gaydom _isn't _an illness.

"Bi-thexual." I tell myself again, this time adding in the stereotype that all gays lisp. I laugh at myself. No way in hell I'm going to start acting like a pussy now.

The only thing that _does _worry me is the fact that I'm _not _worried. I've seen movies before, wasn't I suppose to go crazy? Freak out? Become suicidal? Kill myself because I'm _different_?

But I _don't _feel any different. I'm just Kyle. Same as I always was. What did it matter who I was attracted to? What did it matter who I had feelings for, so long as I was actually able to feel, unlike Cartman? Why do gay people have to "come out" when all it is, is telling everyone what makes your dick hard? Is it really any of their goddamn business?

And most importantly; why the fuck is everybody so fucking stupid?

I hear the knob of the door turn and then open. Stan appears in the mirror behind me a second later.

"Why are you wearing that?" I ask, indicating his sweater.

He shrugs. "Wendy likes this shirt."

"You don't expect me to wear something special, do you?"

He snorts. "Dude, I don't give a crap. Relax, this is totally casual." I pull on my hat, watching him as his eyes move down my body. "It might be kinda cold for a t-shirt though."

He moves to my closet, flipping through shirts. I come up behind him just in time to have a maroon sweater thrown in my face.

"Wear that over your shirt." He commands, frowning at me. "And lose the hat."

"Suddenly you're my queer fashion consultant?" I unravel the balled up sweater and pull it over my head. Stan snatches my hat off the second my head pops through and sends it sailing through the air. "I thought you liked girls." I pry. "And my hat."

"Your hat is awesome, Kyle. And I don't _like girls_, I _love Wendy_." My face screws up bitterly. "This is common date sense. You wear a sweater over a shirt, that way if she gets cold, you can either take it off and offer it to her, or even better, you can wrap your arms around her and feel her up."

I let out a small cry of outrage. "You don't actually expect-"

"And how is she suppose to run her fingers through your hair when you're making out if you wear a hat?" He snorts. "Seriously, Kyle, where's your head?"

"Making out?!" I rave. "I don't even know who the hell she is yet!"

"Trust me, this girl will totally make out with you."

"Who is it?"

He smiles, making me even more suspicious.

"If it's Bebe-!"

"It's not." He pats my shoulder, laughing. "Jesus, Kyle, calm down."

"You're right," I admit, taking a breath. "This wont be so bad." This time when I look in the mirror, all I see is a big, red Jew-fro.

"Perfect." Stan beams.

"Perfect?" I growl. "I look like a sad little clown boy about to get his lips sucked off by a testosterone-hungry _girl_."

"Cool, so you're ready." I blink at him. "Lets go, your date's at Wendy's house."

Sighing, I follow him out of the house, trying hard not to stare at his ass the whole way.

* * *

Her name is Porschea. 

Stan assured me she was hot, and he wasn't lying. But now I know why it's _all _he would tell me, because what the hell else can you really say about her?

Yes, she's gorgeous. Sure, she's friendly and seems to be into me. But Christ, does she _ever _shut up? Maybe if the conversation was in some way mentally stimulating I could tolerate it, but I can actually _feel _myself getting dumber listening to her.

Stan and Wendy don't seem to notice this at all; they're _way _too absorbed in one another, which I guess is a good thing, in a really fucked up way. We stop to get some food on the way to the Art museum (Wendy's choice, not mine.), where I'm too preoccupied watching them share a plate of spaghetti and feeling _bitter _about it to listen to half of what Porschea is saying. I think it's something about the little ridges on the butter knife. How she can talk about something so simple for so long is beyond my comprehension.

About half way through, I'm sick of watching the other couple make kissy-face and push my chair closer to Porschea's. Stan notices, but only smiles, then goes back to Wendy.

I lean in close, talking low in her ear. Nothing important, just little flirtatious things. I glance at Stan, hoping he's seeing this; expecting some kind of fury scrawled across his face. He is watching, but he's smiling. The kind of smile that says he's proud of me. He keeps eye contact, but slips his arm around Wendy.

I grind my teeth, put my arm around Porschea and my other hand on her thigh. She glances down, shocked, then smiles approvingly at me.

Stan blinks in surprise, but he still doesn't look bothered. Instead, he decides it's a game. Every move I make, he makes one bolder, until finally I stop; it was going too far, with Stan frenching Wendy and me too depressed and too chicken to outshine that.

I'm quiet the rest of the dinner, but that's okay; Porschea talks enough for the both of us.

The walk to the museum eases me up a bit. Mostly, I'd say, because Stan fell behind, letting Porschea and Wendy gossip and giggle together while we walked a few feet behind them, side by side. He doesn't say anything about our showdown, and neither do I. There's nothing _to _say; but secretly, I know he's proud of me and is rooting in my favor, which in reality is rooting _against _me. But he doesn't know that, so I can't be mad.

The local museum is exactly that; Local. There are no famous paintings, and from what I've seen, no good ones either. It's reserved for South Park residents, and it shows. It's stuffy and stinky in here, and I keep sneezing.

"Oh my gosh, it's a pony!" Porschea squeals in girlish delight at one of the statues. "One time, my class took a trip to this ranch that had a pony, but it was like, a million miles away. The bus ride made me soooo sick!"

I shoot Wendy a look, who smiles innocently and shrugs. "I think she's cute."

I just shake my head, smiling, then pause. The painting on the wall behind her catches my eye. Something about it; something about the colors. I move past Wendy, unable to blink. It's magnificent.

"That guy's head is kinda shaped like a dick." Stan comments rather loudly from across the room, looking at some portrait. Porschea giggles, so high pitched and nasally.

But I'm too drawn in to the paiting to care what they're saying, and apparently, so is Wendy. She's noticed my sudden shift in mood and touches my arm, studying my face. "What do you see, Kyle?" Her voice is soft and gentle; understanding. So much more pleasant than Porschea's.

I swallow, my eyes roving over the patterns. My throat swells up with tears and when I speak, my voice is thick. "He's afraid." I tell her. "And determined, all at once."

We're quiet a moment. I feel Stan and Porschea come up behind us, but it doesn't stop me. It feels so good to let this out.

"See the stars?" I point up; Wendy nods, silent. "He's reaching for something he'll never be able to have. There's so many things in the way. Even… himself." I look at the tear painted by his eye and touch my own cheek. "It hurts," I breathe. "But he keeps trying anyway; keeps trying to reach it somehow, because… he wants it. More than _anything_." I close my eyes, squeezing them tight, then look at Wendy. She's staring at me with shiny eyes.

I suddenly feel like the biggest dope in history, and I don't know why.

"That's beautiful." She whispers, making me feel just slightly better. I try to smile, thankful for her kindness.

I move to the next painting, avoiding Stan's bewildered stare.

* * *

Porschea holds my hand all the way back to her house. 

I don't want her to; she just takes it, and I'm too dazed to pull it away. Besides that, Stan keeps watching, and so does Wendy. Part of me doesn't want them to be disappointed that I didn't have a good time. I can't let them know that it made me miserable; that I'd do anything to take back these few hours of torture.

_I'll never do this again…_

She kisses me when we reach her house; kisses my lips, and I want to wipe it away with the back of my hand, despite how pretty she is.

And she _is _pretty.

I wonder why Wendy would set me up with someone like that. She's so out of my league. but it's weird, because at the same time, I don't want her. Not even the slightest, sleaziest way.

On the way home though, I can't tear my eyes away from Stan. And I can't help thinking… that it's _him _I want.

I walk behind them, staring at his hand interlocked with Wendy's, imagining that it's mine. It probably feels so warm. I hate her for having that; for having _him_. I think about the painting and how much it's like me, wanting something I'll never have. I wonder if the artist is gay; wonder if he's felt this way… for _his _best friend.

"Kyle?"

I look up, not realizing we had already passed up Wendy's house and made it to Stan's. I blink, confused, because she's still there.

"I hope you had a good time." She rubs her hands up and down her arms, trying to ward off the chilly air. Stan's key jingles as he unlocks the door.

"You're cool walking back alone, right? It's only another street down." He asks. My eyes focus on Wendy as she disappears into the house. A second later, I see a light click on.

"She's staying with you?" I blurt, feeling my stomach burn with dread. I want to grab him, hold him against me, physically restrain him from going inside. My heart starts pounding in my ears when he smiles, giving a knowing little laugh. "Stan," I rush, not knowing what to say, or where to start.

"Mom and Dad are gone this weekend, remember?" He reminds me.

My legs are trembling. I feel sickness accumulating in my stomach, and I'm hot; so hot my vision is going fuzzy. He can't do this to me.

"Kyle?"

"You… I… I thought-" He grabs hold of me, keeping me steady. I push him away. "You're still going to… to…" I can't say it. I feel dizzy and it makes me too sick to even think it.

"Kyle, I-"

"You can't do this, Stan." I demand, clutching at my heart; It feels like it's being ripped apart. Words start tumbling out, I'm not even thinking about them, and I can't control it. "It's a mistake, please, you have to listen to me, Stan! Don't do this! God, _don't _do this!"

"Kyle!" He shouts, grabbing the neck of my sweater. The maroon one; the one _he_ picked out. I swallow back vomit. "It's too late."

My world freezes. I stumble backward, somehow managing to catch myself. "What?" It comes out a deadly whisper, a puff of steam in the night air. It's starting to sprinkle; the drops are clinging to his hair, his eyelashes, making him shimmer in the darkness.

"It's too late." The words come again, but they sound so surreal. This is a nightmare. It has to be. "We already…" He sighs, looking down at his shoes, not understanding what this is _doing _to me.

"When?" I choke. I want to hurt him; want to make him bleed. "When did you-"

"The other day." He answers quickly. "When… when you were waiting for me. When I thought you were missing." He pushes his bangs out of his face, gives me a careful smile. I can't breathe. "That's why I didn't come home, I- I'm sorry for not telling you sooner, Kyle."

My whole body is pulsing; skin, hair, eyes, organs, teeth. My spine is tingling, head spinning like mad. He continues talking, saying something about how it's over with and everything can go back to normal, saying shit that proves he knows _nothing_; that he's stupid, that he doesn't fucking _get it_.

"I was going to tell you, dude, but you've been so-"

"_**Ahhhhhhhh!**_**" **I cry in outrage, lunging at him with all my strength, unable to control myself any longer.

We tumble to the ground, sliding across the icy surface of his porch. His head smacks against the wall and I sit up, my legs pinning him down by the waist. I can't control my actions; I can't think. I'm so mad, so hurt. I feel myself throw punches savagely, wildly.

"_Kyle! What the __**fuck**__!!!!!!" _He screams. I grab his throat, choking him, screaming something incoherent, something even I can't understand. Tears are pouring down my face, dripping onto his.

"_Kyle-" _He chokes, his fingers curling around my hands.

Wendy runs from the house, screaming at me, but I can't understand her either. I feel her try to pull me away, but I resist. She slides between our bodies, facing me, and gets a hold of my arms.

"KYLE!" She yells, so harsh that it stills me. "_Kyle_!"

My breathing is ragged as I stare at her and come back down to earth. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and when I look at Stan, a streak of lightening flashes across the sky. He doesn't look injured; only frightened, concerned, and… hurt.

It takes me a moment to realize… _I _put that there.

"Kyle?" He asks, so innocently I feel my heart break all over again. Tears burst out of his eyes.

"Oh God," I croak, my breath so hard it feels like my lungs are on fire. "…_S_-_stan_,"My throat constricts.

I feel myself choke up, and then I turn and run.

* * *

I make it to Cartman's house in less than ten minutes. 

When he opens the door, I topple into him, and I'm a little surprised that he catches me when I do. Maybe… there _is _something human inside of him.

"Kahl?" His voice is so high I would have laughed under any other circumstance. "The fuck happened to you?"

I take a deep wheezing breath, choke, and then start sobbing uncontrollably. He helps me to the couch, falling beside me onto the cotton pillows.

"Calm down, Jew. Seriously, what happened?"

"He _f-fucked _her, Cartman," I cry, burying my face in my hands. "It's too lah-late! He didn't l-listen to m-me!"

I feel him freeze beside me; feel his breath stop. "…What?"

I nod, crying harder. "Weh-_Wendy_…"

"_Goddamnit_!" He leaps up. His yell rattles the windows, putting the storm outside to shame. "Why the hell didn't you stop him?!"

"I tried!" My throat hurts from screaming, my eyes from crying, my heart from breaking. I want it all to stop; I want it all to disappear. "He didn't even tell me! I tried to stop him, Cartman! I tried but he told me it was too late!"

Cartman falls beside me again. He leans forward, wrecking fingers through his clean, fluffy hair. There's silence and the sound of rain, and then I hear it; the unmistakable sound of sobs. His body shakes beside me, overcome with sadness. I close my eyes, mute sobs making my body jerk. It hurts so fucking bad.

"…_Kyle_?" He mewls.

I look up at him; one tear streaked face mirroring another. My heart throbs painfully a second before his mouth crushes against mine.

My eyebrows furrow, more confusion flooding my mind. But I don't even try to stop him. Our lips melt together, tongues fusing. My skin is cold from the rain, but I can feel warmth spreading through my body.

And I kiss him back. Hard.

We peel clothes off each other frantically, but it's still not fast enough. I can't help but feel like I need this; that _we _need this. I don't let myself think about it when our bodies come together. I don't do anything except greedily take all I can from it. It doesn't feel good, but that's okay; it isn't suppose to feel good. It's countering the pain, the anger, the hurt; it's making me _numb._

Tears pour down my face as we move together, our groans overpowering all other sounds. His breath his hot in my ear as each pant hits my skin. I stare at the ceiling when I feel myself surge and nearly choke on my own gratified moan. Cartman finishes a moment later, collapsing hard on top of me.

My head spins wildly, but it's slowly coming to a stop. I wipe my face, slick with sweat and tears, and let out a long breath. My eyes flutter closed.

...And reality rains, _pours_, all around me.

I just lost my virginity to Eric Cartman.

My eyes open reluctantly. He's panting into my shoulder, exhausted. I feel a tug at my heart, a horrible, dreadful ache. Stan floods my mind, and with it, a tidal wave of guilt.

My stomach convulses violently.

"Get the _fuck_ off me!" I shriek, throwing Cartman onto the floor.

"Fuck!" He sputters. "Goddamn fucking Jew!"

I race to the bathroom, not even bothering to close the door, and proceed to spill mouthful after mouthful of sickness into the toilet.

---

To be continued...

* * *

_-BratChild3_


	8. Jelly and Jews

****

Authors Note: I don't speak Hebrew... so just keep that in mind. It's been a while, but here you go. Thanks for the reviews on the last installment. :) They're incredible. And I tried to write back to everyone, but FF was having an issue and I don't know if they went through. Anyway, thanks guys. I appreciate it.

****

Chapter Eight: Jelly and Jews

The world finally stops whirling Saturday morning.

I wake up later than usual, which doesn't surprise me. Stress makes me sleep, whether or not I've brought it on myself. In this case, I think I mostly have.

__

God, I'm so fucking stupid…

I pull my blanket over my face, the smooth surface cool against my scorching cheeks. And I _think_, even though I don't want to, about Wendy and Stan. He shares more with her than he ever has with me, because it's deeper than just friendship. He gave her his heart and, as of last week, his body. No matter how close we are, I'll never be able to cross the friendship line, we'll never have that kind of bond. This is where it stops for us. The hardest part is knowing that I'm not the most important person in his life anymore, and that I never will be again. The hardest part is knowing… that he _wants _it that way.

I close my eyes, trying to dull the ache I feel that isn't an ache at all, just emptiness. I hate friendship; It's too exact, too final.

And then I remember, reluctantly, about Cartman. Though I try to push it away, it just won't _go_. I wish I could take it back. I wish I could take the whole fucking evening back. It was the worst night of my life and I don't know if I'll ever get it out of my head. Everything, even now when I think back, was fast forward. I remember it like watching a movie; I knew what I was doing, but I couldn't control it, couldn't stop it.

I didn't want to do that. Not that way, and not with Cartman.

I cover my eyes with my hands, wanting to hide, but I don't know from what. Myself, maybe, my own thoughts.

What the hell have I done?

__

Cartman?!

My stomach churns with pure disgust, and I realize suddenly that I want to talk to Kenny. He's got too much going against him to judge me on anything. And I can't go to Stan, no matter how badly I want to. I'll have to figure out exactly what I'm going to say first, because the only thing I'm sure of right now is that I don't want to fuck things up further.

I toss my blankets off and grab the phone on my desk. My head is starting to spiral out of control again and I need someone to help me sort through the tangle. I stab at the numbers and listen impatiently for the sound of ringing, but all that answers is an out of service message. I slam the phone down.

"God _dammit!"_

"Kyle?"

I whirl around at the small voice, knocking a can of pencils off the desk. Ike peeks in the doorway, his eyes cautious as he looks from the abused phone to me. I blow out a breath and roll my eyes heavenward.

"_Jesus_, Ike."

"What's wrong?"

"You scared the crap out of me, what the hell do you think is wrong?"

He steps into my room and closes the door behind him. Apparently, he's decided I'm not angry enough to avoid.

"Stan kept calling last night."

"_So_?" I growl, much too defensive for my own good, and swoop down to scoop up the scattered pencils and stack them neatly into the cup

"He kept calling and you weren't home. He's not here now, and you slept late." He observes coolly. "None of that is normal. Something's wrong."

"Oh, I get it, so you're Mom's little nazi spy now, is that it?" I hiss.

"No." He shakes his head. "Mom's too busy with her newest fundraiser to notice anything anymore. I just know when you're fighting with Stan because it's the only time you get that _look_."

"What_ look_?" I snarl, more angry with myself for letting a nine year old irritate me than I really am at him in the first place.

"_That _look," He answers, pointing at my face. "Like you have no soul."

I can't control the surprise that snaps across my face. I wasn't expecting something so deep, so alarmingly dark. I touch my cheek questioningly, watching Ike's careful observation.

"It's like a light goes out in your eyes and nothing's there anymore." His voice is sad, with just a touch of accusation. "It's like you're dead, even though your body keeps on living."

My jaw has fallen loose, very slightly slack at how attentive he was. I hadn't realized it was so blatantly obvious to him, but even more than that, it was incredible the way he described plainly how I actually felt. I clear my throat, tightening my jaw to appear more collected than I feel.

"Is that all?"

He sighs, shoulders dropping, and sits on my bed. "I need to talk to you."

"Ah, I gotta go find Kenny," I complain. I had my own issues, how was I suppose to take on more? "Can't you talk to Dad?"

He gives me a look, clearly mocking. "And get advice from the prehistoric era? No thanks."

A half smile curves my lips. "Okay," I concede. "You make a solid argument." I move to sit next to him, brushing aside my own thoughts for now.

He starts with a sigh, eyes searching my ceiling. "I have this friend-"

__

"Please," I interrupt. He frowns, eyes slicing to mine. "Do you actually think I don't know this is about you?"

"It _is _about me," He huffs. "If you'd let me finish."

"Sorry." I hold my hands up in defense, silently amused he picked up my snappy personality despite not even sharing the same line of blood. It had to be something about the way my mom raises us.

"I have this friend," He pauses, lips puckering in thought. "This _sorta _friend."

"Like Cartman?" I offer, immediately regretting thinking of _him _again. I shudder.

"No, like a girl." Ike confesses. "so we play on opposite sides of the playground."

I nod in understanding, remembering those days and how conveniently that unspoken rule kept Wendy and Stan apart. Sometimes I wish it still applied; hormones really did ruin perfectly good logic about cooties.

"But I really, _really _like her." It comes out in a rush, and I think that if the anguish wasn't taking over the embarrassment, he'd blush harder than the light pink color barely staining his cheeks.

"So if she's your friend, she must like you too."

He grimaces, looking physically pained. "I don't give her butterflies."

"How do you know?"

"I asked her."

I blink. "Damn, you have balls, Ike."

He smiles, eyes sparkling shamefully. "Well, I asked her friend to ask her."

I snicker, shoving his shoulder playfully. He grins, but it quickly dies out.

"I thought I could win her over, but it only made her mad at me." He sighs, dejected. "She likes my friend, Fillmore."

"Ouch."

"Yeah." He laughs bitterly. "And he likes her too."

There's silence as he waits, eyebrows furrowed, letting me analyze the situation. I know what he's hoping I'll say, what he _needs _me to say. But I couldn't subject him to that kind of disappointment; I won't lie to protect him. In the end, it'll only make it hurt more if the odds weren't in his favor.

"Ike," I close my eyes, feeling my own heartache course painfully through my veins with each beat of my heart. "Do you want the truth?"

When I look at him, I can tell he's already crushed.

"Because If you don't, you'll have to talk to someone else." I warn, unwilling to hit him with it unless he was truly alright with hearing it.

He nods, swallowing. I can see his fingers curl into the bedspread.

"The truth, Ike," I breathe, telling this to myself as much as him. "is that you can't make someone like you, no matter how badly you want to. Yeah, sometimes gifts and flattery works for a little while. On _some _people."

I admit this somewhat reluctantly, hoping he isn't desperate enough to attempt it.

"But it would be all wrong, because in reality, they _still _don't like you. Not really. And eventually whatever you're doing to keep them around won't work anymore.." I rub my face, suddenly feeling tired. "It's hard, isn't it? To let go of the hope that maybe they'll change their minds, that by some miracle they'll suddenly feel the same way about you?"

He nods again, silent still. I think he's trying to keep himself composed; His eyes are starting to swell. I put my hand on his shoulder and smile sadly.

"I didn't realize this until recently, but I've held on to that same kind of hope for a very long time. It makes it harder to let go the longer you hold onto it, and every time you realize they still don't want you that way, it hurts even more."

"Does it ever go away?" His voice is barely a whisper.

I shake my head. "I don't know."

I close my eyes again, thinking about Stan, trying not to at the same time. "I'm not saying you shouldn't have hope, because for you, there _is _hope. What I'm saying is to try to not let it take over every other emotion. You're _nine_, Ike."

He smiles at me; I return the favor.

"This sucks, I know, but the best thing you can do -for yourself and for your friends- is to just be yourself. You're still going to like her, and that's okay, because you can't change how you feel any more than you can change how she does. Someday she might like you, and someday you might realize that she never will. It's okay to hold on to that hope, but don't depend on it. Don't let it hurt you more than it has to."

He looks down at his hands; wistful, thoughtful.

"I'm sorry, Ike."

Before it can properly register, his arms are around my waist, hugging me. "Thanks, Kyle."

I pause, wondering if I truly helped at all. "…You're welcome."

Ike moves to the door, stopping briefly to analyze me again. "Don't give up hope yet," He advises. "Stan loses his soul when you're not around, too."

The door closes before the shock is even visible on my face.

-----

Kenny manages to keep himself invisible all weekend, so I keep myself occupied with long walks and even longer stretches of time locked away in my bedroom. I was anxious about Stan, repulsed about Cartman, and perplexed by Ike and his insight. My mind raced the entire weekend, but still, I was somehow able to sleep most of my time away. I didn't feel _well, _but I didn't feel sick either, not in the traditional sense.

By Monday morning, I'm not feeling any better, but I get up nearly an hour early and walk right past the bus stop and straight to school, my mind so far away I barely remember the walk at all.

Even as I trudge into home room twelve minutes late, the teacher glowering openly, it takes a minute for the mind fog to clear long enough to realize, with devastating horror, that the desk next to mine is empty.

Stan didn't come to school today.

The weight of a thousand tons of remorse sink into my stomach, but even as I drag myself to my desk and all but fall into it, worried that I'm the reason he isn't here, I can't get Ike's words out of my head: _Stan loses his soul too._

How would Ike know something like that? Maybe he really _was _a spy; not a nazi, just the creepy, annoying little brother kind. But he did know, somehow, and I can't help but feel an almost overwhelming sense of relief. Relief and… _hope._

I shake my head violently and focus quickly back on my desktop. It wasn't good to hope. Not about that anyway; not about _him. _The book had closed on that a very long time ago, when he fell for a girl before he'd even gone through puberty.

A_ girl._

I realize now that this isn't about whether or not I'm good enough; I could be the best thing that's ever happened to him and it still wouldn't make any difference. Stan doesn't want me because he _can't_ want meHis brain isn't programmed for that.

I frown, stabbing my pen into my notepad. I wish I could rewire him somehow.

__

"Kyle," A voice hisses, and my heart comes to a dead standstill. I'd forgotten about Cartman, and that wasn't good. There was no telling how he'd react to me now, but chances were it wouldn't be in my favor.

I swallow, keeping myself ramrod straight in the chair. I'm suddenly very aware of my every movement, and of each person in the room. He wasn't stupid enough to expose what happened to everyone, was he? I'd think he would realize that if he knocked me down, he'd be dragged right along with me.

"Kyle!" He bellows again, and I'm snapped in the back of my neck by a flying rubber band. I spin around in my chair, stopping short when I see his smug expression. My face pales.

"How'd you do it?" He asks, barely able to sit still. I've never seen him look so happy, outside of the day we went to Casa Bonita.

"What?"

"Excuse me, Kyle?"

I turn back toward the front of the room, where Ms. Jordan stands, hands on hips.

"Would you be bothered terribly if I were to interrupt you for a moment and finish teaching the class?"

"I don't know, why don't you ask Cartman?" I mutter, glaring darkly at the edge of my folder.

"Mr. Cartman?" She asks. Her thick, British accent makes his name sound better somehow. Proper.

I hear him clear his throat, almost in a professional manner. "I hope you can forgive me. I was just urging my good friend Kyle here to pay better attention. I do learn so very much from you."

"Well, then," She breathes, looking overly flattered by his untrue statement. "Shall I continue?"

She turns back to the board, launching into another lecture about Edgar Allen Poe, and I turn blazing eyes back to Cartman.

"What?" He asks innocently, then turns smug again.

I chastise a string of profanities under my breath and proceed to ignore him. Which isn't easy; not when I feel his eyes boring into the back of my head the entire time. It makes my stomach crawl, and I hate myself even more for doing _it _with _that._

I look over at Stan's empty desk, regret wavering through me. And I can't help but wonder what it would've been like with him. There is one thing I know with total certainty: I would neither be repulsed, or regret one moment of it.

I close my eyes, letting my imagination have its way this time, blurring the disturbing memory of reality and replacing it with fantasy.

__

It wouldn't have been so sloppy, I decide.

Maybe just as spontaneous; probably just as fast. Although smoother somehow, gentler. But still more intense, more passionate.

Goosebumps wash over me.

With Cartman it was sloppy. Not just _awkward _sloppy, but just plain _bad_. His touch was uncoordinated and impersonal; cold almost. And greedy. Stan's touch is completely opposite. Even a slap on the back sends ten thousand volts racing through my veins. It's always so warm, so intended. Like every one, no matter how small, is planned and thought-out and meant just for me. If an accidental brush of his arm against mine is capable of melting my bones and turning my blood to fire, what would intentionally intimate touches do to me?

I feel heat spread through my stomach and fight the urge to drool thinking about it. My eyes scan the room, searching for a distraction to ward of the potential danger I can feel is starting to form in my pants, and make the mistake of giving Cartman another look. My stomach flips when I take in his smirk. I can't tell from this angle if it indicates any danger, because somehow, it looks genuine.

__

"Meet me after class," He mouths. I blink.

Shit. Cartman wasn't so messed up he thought I was his boyfriend now, did he? That would be wrong in so very many sickening ways.

I gulp at the thought, swallowing acid, and jump when the bell sounds. I'm out the door before anyone else is even out of their seat. But I still don't make it out fast enough. The hall is filled to capacity within a couple of seconds, and I feel Cartman grab the back of my shirt and spin me around to face him. His touch makes me hot with nausea, and I remember him sweating and panting on top of me. He smiles again; that weird, abnormal smile. And it's even worse than I'd imagined, because now I can see admiration plainly in his eyes, and wherever that might lead is a far more horrible fate than blackmail.

Bile rises in my throat, and when he touches my arm again, I turn my head to the side and spill the contents of my stomach across the slick tile. Cartman jumps back, his eyes going wide.

"The fuck is wrong with you lately, Jew? Get yourself pregnant or something?"

I glare up at him through my eyelashes, clutching my stomach. It's still rocking uneasily. I hope I don't puke again; I already feel badly for the janitor.

"Wow, you should see the nurse- You're baby shit green." He recommends.

"Fuck off," I hiss, wobbling slightly as I pushed past him and toward the bathroom. Thankfully, he lets me go.

Once inside, I clutch the edge of the sink to keep myself upright and close my eyes. Why the hell have I been such a screwed-up pussy lately? I splash my face with water and dry it on a grainy paper towel. I already know the answer to that question; It's because I fall apart without Stan by my side.

I crumple up the paper towel and throw it in the general direction of the garbage, then look at my reflection, hating myself. I can see in my eyes what Ike was talking about. There's absolutely nothing there; I'm just like a zombie. I don't even know how it got this bad.

But it has to stop. Right now. I can't keep doing this to myself, I can't keep doing this to _Stan_. I'm way too dependant on him, way too needy of his company. There's room in my life for other friends. I don't have to be with Stan constantly. I would see him again. We would hang out again. I have to let him go. I have to stop holding on to this false hope. We were and always would be best friends. I knew that; even now, even before we'd resolved this stupid fight that was all my fucking fault in the first place. Stan is my best friend. Always and forever. That should be a comforting thought.

I blink at myself, my face twisting into a pained expression a second before the image blurs with tears.

The only problem was that I didn't want to be his best friend anymore; not _just _his best friend. I wanted to be his _everything_, the way he had somehow become _my _everything.

And I don't know how I'm suppose to hang out with other friends and actually _enjoy _doing it when I'm miserable and missing Stan every second he isn't near me. It's like being without oxygen and trying to not be bothered that you can't even fucking _breathe_.

Obsessive, maybe. Insane… _completely_. But I want him, in the worst possible way, and I don't know how to make it stop.

The bathroom door swings open, and I turn away quickly to hide my puffy eyes, hoping desperately it isn't Cartman.

"He's in here!" I recognize Butters voice. I turn to him just as Kenny follows him in.

"Cartman said you puked in the hall." Kenny explains, carefully reading my expression. "Are you sick, or is he really taking it that bad?"

"Is who taking what bad?" I ask, confused.

He makes a face, like he can't tell if I'm being serious or not. "Stan."

I feel some sort of internal reaction at the sound of his name; a startled, excited feeling. And an ache. "What _about _Stan?" I pry, not following.

His face is blank a moment, then an eyebrow shoots up quizzically. "Dude, where the hell have _you _been all fucking weekend long?" He asks, but continues without waiting for an answer. "Wendy broke up with Stan Friday night. No one's heard from him since."

Shock courses my body, freezing in my veins. The first thing I feel is happiness so deep, I almost collapse under the pressure. But it doesn't last long, because in the next second, an image of Stan, nine years old with black make up around his eyes, surfaces from my memory. My heart starts racing again. Him and Wendy were in way deeper this time, they were a lot more serious. What would it do to him now, if it was that hard for him then? When all they were was some elementary crush gone bad?

"Kyle?" Kenny puts his hands on my shoulders, shaking me slightly. "Is Stan alright? Are _you _alright?"

"No one's heard from him?" I ask, just to be sure I heard right. Kenny purses his lips, worry flashing across his eyes, and he nods, more serious than I've seen him in a long time.

"You haven't either." He doesn't ask, but it's obvious that this revelation is new to him.

"We had a fight." I explain, ashamed.

"Shit," His hands fall away, his head hanging. "This isn't good."

Butters' eyes are wide, searching both of us frantically. "Wah- well, maybe someone ought ta go make sure he's alright."

He doesn't need to tell me twice. I whirl for the door,

nearly tripping over myself when Kenny moves in front of me. "His mom would have called if anything… _really _bad happened."

We stare at each other, him peeking carefully up at me through overgrown bangs. My eyes go wide when I realize what he means. "Stan wouldn't do that." I snap wildly, my voice coming out louder than I'd meant for it to.

"Probably not," He agrees, but avoids looking directly at me, and I think if I hadn't already lost my entire breakfast, then I would now. "He just lost the love of his life, Kyle. He told me…" He pauses, glancing at me swiftly. Looking _guilty._

"Told you what?" I ask, so soft I can hardly hear it over my suddenly hyperactive heart.

His eyes seem to melt, turning apologetic. "That he was saving up to buy her a ring." I stare, blankly. "An _engagement _ring."

The weight of his words make my knees buckle, but his arms shoot out to hold me steady. He seemed to expect this, like he _knew._ I don't care though, not when my heart is splintering into a million pieces.

"_That_," He rushes, seemingly trying to cover up the wound he carved. "is bad enough. But you're _fighting _with him?" He lets go of my arms slowly, making sure I can stand. "That worries me the most. Stan can get through anything, because he's strong. But you, Kyle," He pauses, his breath exiting on a quick sigh. "I don't think he can live without you."

Part of me thinks those words shouldn't be comforting. It shouldn't make me feel _good_, and it doesn't exactly. Only a little bit, but mostly, it makes me worried.

"He won't ever have to." I hear myself admit, though I can't even feel my lips move.

Kenny smiles up at me, looking devilish and angelic all at once. "His mom would have called," He assures me again. "But it's time to stop moping around, feeling sorry for your pathetic little Jew ass, and make things better with him. Don't wait."

I nod in understanding, wondering when he ever got so smart about people. I didn't think he ever noticed anything besides the female anatomy. I seemed to be wrong about a lot of things lately, and this was something I was actually glad about.

"Just get through the rest of the day, alright? He'll be okay until then." He wraps his arm around me, leading me to the door with Butters following faithfully at our heels.

They walk me all the way to my science class, even though they both have French on the opposite side of the building. French because they thought it'd make the ladies swoon, something I realize now I'd never considered because it never crossed my mind _to _impress them in the first place. Stan liked when I spoke Hebrew, even though I wasn't exactly fluent, so I wasn't interested in learning anything else. I was interested in using what I already knew impressed him. And I exploited that sometimes; exploited it for him in private.

__

I was flirting, I realize suddenly, shocked at myself.

He liked the way it sounded, and he would watch the way I moved my tongue and mouth to pronounce it correctly. I even taught him a few words; the first being _zayin. _I told him it meant "Dog", and he walked around calling Sparky "penis" for about a month. He couldn't understand why it made me laugh so hard, but once he looked it up online and realized what it really meant, he wouldn't repeat anything I said that wasn't in English.

I think about little things like that to make it through the day, and I'm amazed at how flirtatious I actually am with him. How did he not see it? But I hadn't either. He wasn't looking for it, and he couldn't see what he wasn't looking for.

It isn't until lunch period that I realize Wendy isn't here either. I sit across from Kenny and Butters, eating my sandwich and wondering about her. What could possess a perfectly sane girl with high moral values to lose her virginity to someone she planned to dump less than a week later? Unless it hadn't been planned at all. Maybe that's why she wasn't here; maybe she was heartbroken too. But what could have gone wrong? They seemed so solid this time.

Cartman sits beside me, but I hardly notice him, not until I realize his eyes are burning into me. My stomach flops again.

"…You're not gonna blow chunks again, are you?" He asks, leaning away from me. I scoot as far from him as possible.

I keep my eyes on my food, shaking my head.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" He demands, squeezing his tiny milk carton in his fist. "Shouldn't you be happy? Stan and Wendy broke up!"

I sneak a glance at Kenny and Butters; they're laughing and look like they're having more fun playing with their food than eating it, which didn't use to be normal for Kenny, not until he practically moved in with Butters and got normal meals every day.

Satisfied with their preoccupation, I look back at Cartman, but when I open my mouth, I lose my voice.

"What?" He sneers.

"If you tell anyone about what happened, you're only screwing yourself." I warn dangerously.

He blinks, and suddenly he's hiding behind a poker face. "I don't know what you're talking about."

My fingers squish into my sandwich, making grape jelly ooze out onto the table. "You know damn well what I'm talking about."

His eyes flash; disgust and anger streaking through almost faster than I can pick up on. And then it's gone. "No, Kahl," He says, sounding pleasant and thoughtful. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

I feel my blood pulse in frustration, but he stares back without a flinch, daring me to challenge him further. My hand relaxes from strangling my lunch, and I suddenly realize he _does _have a plan after all. He knows what I'm talking about all right, but he's already decided that it never happened. It was our little secret; one that neither of us wanted in the first place. No one had to know.

The corners of my mouth turn up involuntarily, and I think that I see him almost smile back. I haven't seen him genuinely happy for weeks; and I know it's because of Wendy. Lucky for me, he's going to be too busy pursuing her to bother giving me hell about anything anyway.

"Stop smiling at me and eat your goddamn lunch, you fricken Jew." He growls into his tray.

I roll my eyes. At least not any more than usual.

---

His mom is a wreck.

I go straight to Stan's house after school, eager to make things right and more than a little nervous. I never fight with him, so I don't quite now how to act.

Sharon answers the door, her forehead set with deep worry lines, but she looks relieved to see me, and a little confused I knocked this time. Normally I just walk in.

"Kyle, I'm so glad you're here." She sighs, and I can tell that she means it. "He won't talk to anyone."

I frown. "He's that bad?"

"The only thing he'll say is "go away". I haven't gotten him to eat all weekend. What's going on with him?"

"…You mean you don't know?"

"Know _what_?" She asks desperately. "What's wrong with my baby?"

I hesitate, wondering if I should tell. But it wasn't a huge secret. And I can't stand to see anyone so worried. What harm was it really?

"Wendy broke up with him." I announce. "Again."

The tension visibly lifts from her shoulders and she falls back onto the arm of the couch. "All this over a girl?" She laughs, but I can tell she doesn't think it's funny.

"All this over a girl." I repeat, smiling sadly at the irony.

She lets me go after that, shaking her head as I scramble up the stairs. Once I get to the top, I stand outside his bedroom door for a long time before I have the nerve to open it, afraid I won't be forgiven. I finally take a breath and turn the knob.

Inside the room is so dark it takes a second for my eyes to adjust. When they do, I make sure to shut the door securely behind me. I take in the scene, feeling my heart wrench painfully.

The curtains are closed, but messily, and the blinds are drawn in a deep angle on one side, like he was in too big a hurry to make sure they closed all the way to the sill. There's an untouched tray of soup and saltine crackers by the bed, and small trash can overflowing with used Kleenex.

Stan is lying on the bed on his back, one arm slung over his face. I move closer, noticing the way his breathing moves his narrow torso up and down. I think he's asleep until I reach the bedside and notice wetness leaking down his arm where the bend of his elbow is covering his eyes. Heartache threatens to strangle me.

"Stan," I choke out.

God, I can't stand seeing him this way. It makes it worst that he's not even startled by my presence; that he's so depressed his normal reflexes are gone.

His arm moves down his face very slowly, until he's peeking at me over the top. The baby blue of his eyes look brighter magnified under a pool of tears. They quickly fill with more and spill over his eyelashes to join the ones he already shed. His lids squeeze closed, so tight it looks painful, and his arm moves back up to cover them. His entire body starts shaking with silent sobs.

"It's gonna be alright, Stan." I touch the back of his hand, gaining more courage when he doesn't pull away. I sit on the edge of the mattress, slowly unfolding myself until I'm sprawled out next to him with my back against the headboard. My left arm sneaks across us and onto his right shoulder. I'm not worried about seeming gay right now; and I don't think he's in any condition to be either. Besides that, we were already more touchy with each other than most boys. It kinda sticks with you when you've been glued together since you were four: the age parents advocate hugging your friends and kissing "owies" better.

I scoot a little closer, turning toward him, moving my arm further around his shoulder and pulling him closer until I slowly ease him into my arms. He presses the side of his face against my chest, and I rest my chin against the crown of his head. My arms slide comfortably around his back, holding him securely. His sobs come out harder, a little louder this time, and his fingers twist into my shirt, gripping me tightly.

"I'd take all the pain if I could." I promise. "You're worth a million heart breaks to me. Don't you know that?" I breathe deep, greedily inhaling his scent. "I'm sorry I got so mad at you."

He turns his face into my chest, the sobs ripping through his throat. I tighten my arms, leaning my cheek against his hair and closing my eyes.

"I'm right here, Stan." I whisper. "It's okay to fall apart. I'll catch you."

And he does; completely losing it in my arms.

---

****

TO BE CONTINUED...

---

-_BratChild3._


	9. Stupid

****

Authors Note: There's something I've noticed that I find very curious. I get approximately the same number of reviews for every chapter, but hardly any of the reviews are the same, save a few continuous reviewers. Yes I notice you and appreciate you very, very much. It just makes me wonder if I'm gaining and losing different fans every chapter I post, or if most people simply don't review every one.

In any event, I think I got carried away with this chapter, so I'm sorry if it's boring. Not as many events took place as I wanted. But that's alright… It has Kenny. : )

As always, thanks guys.

****

Chapter 9- Stupid

Stan falls asleep after about two hours of on and off waterworks, and I fight my own sleepiness with tremendous difficulty. Cuddling up with him has me more relaxed than I've ever felt before. At the same time, I don't want to miss one second wrapped up with him. I want to savor it, because I know I'll never feel this whole again.

By eight o'clock though, I know I need to pry myself away. Mom had left for Washington D.C this afternoon to protest a new bill being passed that legalized pot in Colorado. When the mayor wouldn't listen, she decided to take it to the White House. Dad went with to make sure she didn't cause a repeat of the Canadian war she'd started when I was eight, and that left Ike all alone. Although I was sure he would be fine, I wasn't willing to take any chances. He may be a "genius" but he was still only nine. I thought about dragging Stan back with me, but didn't think waking him up was such a good idea. I had a feeling he'd only have some sense of peace in an unconscious state, and at the moment I had him in an amazingly deep sleep that I didn't want disturbed.

I close my eyes, hugging him to me before carefully untangling myself from his clinging arms and legs, then slide out from underneath him, moving so slowly it takes a full six minutes before I completely free myself. I hesitate at the bedside, one corner of my mouth twitching into a smile as I watch him nuzzle his face in the pillow, like he had kept doing to my neck. I lean down and drop a light kiss on his exposed right temple.

"Love you." I murmur against his skin, before somehow finding it in myself to walk away. I hesitate after I close myself out of his room, leaning back against the door and sighing.

I can smell him on my clothes, feel the tears that dried on my throat. I press my fingers to it, clenching my teeth, trying to hold on to the feeling I get when he touches me.

"Oh… _God, _Stan," I breathe longingly, fighting against everything I am not to go back in. I must be crazy to leave. When am I ever going to get the opportunity to spend all night actually _sandwiched _between Stan and a mattress again? I can still feel the weight of his body pressed against mine, his breath against my skin. My eyes slip shut as tingles start forming below my belt line.

"How's Stan?"

"Jesus Christ!" I jump violently at the sound of Sharon's voice, facing her with a hand to my frantic heart. "Shit," I breathe wildly. "I'm sorry."

At first I'm not sure if I'm apologizing for cursing in front of her or for the deliciously wrong things I want to do to her son. But she smiles, and I know she doesn't know what I'd just been thinking anyway.

"Did you work things out?" She rephrases her question.

"Uh, well," I let out another breath, trying to calm my nerves. "He didn't really… say anything, exactly, but I think me and him are gonna be okay."

She nods, looking satisfied, though still anxious somehow. "He's just so… _miserable._ I don't know how to snap him out of it."

"Don't worry. He's gonna pull through this." I reassure, all the while hoping to God I'm right, that I can help snap him out of it.

She touches my chin in a motherly way, smiling softly, and I realize I'm taller than her now. I wonder when that happened?

"I was getting a little worried for a while. I knew this break-up was coming, but you hadn't been coming around often and I worried he wouldn't have anyone to help him. But here you are." She gives my nose a single pat with her index finger. "He's very lucky to have a friend like you."

"Wait, you _knew _they were going to break up?" I continue at her nod. "How?"

"Woman's intuition. I could tell by the way Wendy…" She trails off, gives me another smile. "Well, I could tell. Just remember not to let girls get between you two."

My eyebrows are knit up in confusion. She lost me at "woman's intuition".

"Are you leaving already?"

Movement catches my attention and my eyes flicker behind her. I can see the blue lighting of the TV flashing from down stairs, and I know that Randy's home from work. I'm just glad he didn't walk in on us; he's kind of homophobic, though I know not completely. He tolerates, but I wonder how tolerant he'd be if he knew what I thought about Stan. Would he stop me from hanging out with him?

"Kyle?"

"Sorry," I look back at Sharon, shaking off the bad feelings. "Yeah, I am. Ike's at home by himself."

"Oh, that's right." She flings her hand in the air, then sets it on my shoulder and starts guiding me downstairs. "Sheila's off to the White House again. If you boys need anything, you just ask."

"Thanks. I'll be back tomorrow after school." When we reach the living room, I glance at Randy in the artificial glow of a ballgame. He gives me a nod and tilts his beer toward me.

"Hey Kyle."

"Hey, Mr. Marsh." I say, watching as he sucks on the neck of the bottle.

He looks like an older version of Stan with a mustache, and the similarity bothers me, because I know it goes a bit further than the dark hair and magazine worthy smile. Especially with Stan so depressed, it makes me worry about the ample supply of alcohol he keeps around the house.

But Stan is better looking than his dad and, I hope, smarter in his choices. He's been smarter with practically everything else in his life. If not, he knows I'd kick his ass in a second, and I'd expect the same treatment from him. I won't let him let this mood consume him. No matter what.

I smile back at Sharon.

"See you tomorrow." I say, and step out the door into the softness of twilight.

----------

Ike is set up at the kitchen table when I get home, pages of homework strewn out in front of him. There's a calculator in his left hand, which he pounds an equation into with the eraser of the pencil he holds in his right.

"Hey, Kyle." He says without looking up.

I throw the refrigerator door open and pull out a carton of milk. "The 'genius' is actually using a calculator? Holy _fucking _Mother of Christ."

He rolls his eyes, tossing his pencil onto the stack of papers. It rolls off and hit's the floor. "Don't tell _Mom_."

"You think I give a crap?" I scoff. "Me and Stan would still be in the fourth grade trying to memorize times tables if it weren't for calculators. And so would Cartman, for that matter, since his fat ass cheated off our papers."

I reach for a cup to pour myself a drink, but pause when my hand touches it. I look at the milk, shrug, then take a direct swig. What the hell? Mom's not home to bitch at me for it.

Ike smiles up at me and tosses down the calculator, which lands with a tiny _smack _and stays put. "How _is _Stan anyway?"

The refrigerator clicks shut as I turn toward him and wipe the liquid white arch off my upper lip. "How'd you know I went to see him?"

His grin widens a degree, practically splitting his face in two. "You have your soul back."

My hand reaches instinctively to my face, resting on my cheek just below my eye.

"Here, look," He grabs the shiny, silver sugar bowl on the table and holds it out to me, which I take curiously.

My reflection is horribly misshaped because of the bowls' roundness, but I can still see exactly what he means. My eyes look like sunbeams; aglow with a fire and happiness.

I set the bowl down carefully, feeling guilty about it. Only a twisted fuck would be practically glowing with life when their best friend was suffering as badly as he is. But I'm not happy about that part; I'm happy just to be near him again. That makes it sound less-selfish, but I wonder if it really is.

"What happened that he didn't come back with you?" Ike presses. He's trying not to sound eager, but I see through his façade. He's such a nosey little shit.

"What's it matter to you?" I counter, and don't even wait for an answer. "Did you have dinner?"

"No. Didn't notice it got so late. Mom made some noodley thing again and said to make you heat it up later."

My stomach rumbles, I give it a pat. "I guess it's later."

I find the container and pry the lid off. A putrid scent wafts up to greet me and the lid drips with the trapped steam that formed when it was fresh. I feel my stomach convulse as my hand snaps up to cover my mouth and nose. "Ah, sick, dude! It smells like someone's old gym sock _died _in it."

Ike laughs and I shove the lid back on, flick my wrist, and send it sailing to the back of the refrigerator. When I turn back to my brother, he's covering his mouth with his hand; habit from so many years trying not to piss Mom off by laughing at something she'd consider insulting. I don't suppress my snicker.

"Pizza?"

"Pizza." He lowers his hand, smiling openly now.

We argue for ten minutes about whether or not it should have pineapples, and I win, because that's extra sugar I don't need or want. Putting chunks of something sweet and juicy on your pizza is just plain _gross _anyway But when I order, I feel bad that he doesn't get what he really wants just because I happen to hate it, so I decide to be nice and get a side of them so he can put the stupid things on his own damn slices.

The phone rings the moment I click it off, and I fully expect it to be the pizza place already screwing up somehow. Or possibly Mom and Dad, "checking up" on us, because I'm fifteen and a half, so I'm still a fucking baby and can't look out for myself.

"Hello?" I bark, already trying not to snap in behalf of my own defense. There's silence and then a slight rustling on the other end.

"_Hello_?"

"…Why'd you leave?"

My breathe catches at the tiny sound. I glance across the table where I sit with Ike. He stares back curiously. My heart picks up again, and I clear my throat.

"I'm sorry, Stan." I find my voice after a moment. "Ike was all alone so I needed to come back. I wanted to bring you with me, but you were so tired, dude. I didn't want to wake you up."

He's quiet again, but I can hear him move into a different position on what sounds like his bed. I can hear springs creaking under his weight.

"I'll be back tomorrow, after school." I rush, hoping he doesn't think I just abandon him or something. "Are you coming?"

He takes a deep breathe, pauses; I imagine that he's closing his eyes, squeezing out tears. His voice cracks on the single word, "…No."

I expected that answer, but I still feel disappointment. School's an even bigger bitch without him there. I twist my finger into my shirt, looking again at Ike, wishing I could leave and feeling bad about wanting to at the same time. It's not that I want away from my brother; he's an awesome kid. It's just that what I _do _want is laying in his bed right now, wondering why I'm not with him. And right now, I can't help but wonder why not either.

I wet my lips, trying to speak; trying to get the image of lying in bed with him out of my head. I want it _so _damn bad.

"Yeah, I figured." I respond, suppressing the longing in my voice. But Ike snickers, and I know I haven't fooled him. I shoot him a look that only makes him laugh again.

I turn away, dramatic and huffy as always, but make sure my voice is soothing for Stan. I want to tell him I'll be right over. More than anything, I want to be there for him. I bite my lip, twisting my shirt some more. My stomach is exposed.

"Try to get some more sleep, alright? I'll come straight over tomorrow."

Damnit! Why do I have to be so fricken responsible all the time? Or better yet, why'd mom have to leave me home to baby-sit again? _I'm _not the one who adopted a kid. _She _should be watching him.

There's crackling on the line; phone static, then Stan's broken voice, "…Kay."

And the line goes dead.

Slowly, I pull the phone away from my ear, staring at it clenched in my pale hand. I want his voice back.

"Kyle?"

I don't answer right away. I'm too focused on this feeling dizzying through me; this feeling that's just so utterly _Stan._

"Kyle?"

"What?"

The feeling slips further away.

"You can go." Ike tells me, sounding wise and understanding beyond his years, just like everything else about him. I turn back to face him. He offers a soft smile. "I know you really want to be there, and he needs you right now. I'll be okay by myself."

"You need me, too." I remind him, taking extra care not to sound resentful about it. For the most part, I'm not.

"Not like Stan does. I'm not wallowing in pain like some sort of carbon copy Goth." He gets up and starts clearing off the table.

I shake my head. "Wait… how do you _know _this stuff? Seriously, Ike, you're like some kind of voodoo mind-reading freak, but those people are fakes."

He sets the last of his books aside, then gets back into his chair, folds his arms across the table and gives me the most serious look he can muster. "I know _lots _of things. Lot's of things I'm sure you don't want _anyone _knowing. Not even Stan." He stabs his chest with his fingers. "But _I_ know."

My lips part slightly, startled by that information. The first thing that comes to mind is Cartman, and the horrible, disgusting thing I had done with him.

"That's not funny." I want to call bullshit, but my heart is pounding deep inside.

Ike's cute smile comes back into play, and he drops the scary, corrupt little kid from a horror movie act. "Yeah, I know. But I really do know things. It's simple to figure out if you pay attention. Like that _thing _I know about."

"Okay," I shift uncomfortably, running my hand over the lump my wallet is making in my pocket. I'm fully prepared to pay him to keep quiet about Cartman, although Ike's never been one to blackmail or manipulate. I simply don't want him talking about it to _me _either. I'm doing everything in my power to never, ever think about it again, and maybe someday when I'm old, it'll be the first memory to go. "What is the this _thing _you know?"

"If I tell you," He bargains. "Will you tell me that I'm right?"

"No, because what if you're completely wrong?" I propose. I don't condone lying, but I'm also prepared to do that under the circumstances.

"I'm not wrong."

"Then why do you need me to tell you that you're right?"

Ike clicks his tongue, trying to keep his frustration level down. He's always been better at that than me. "Because you need to confess. You'll feel better when you do."

"What am I confessing?" My heart kicks up again, making my body feel hot with dread. I'm still holding on to the sliver of hope that maybe it isn't Cartman at all.

The breakfast table is small, fitting only four around its square perimeter, so when Ike leans forward as far as he can go, his face is only inches from mine. I feel his breath hit me as he speaks, "Confess that you have a big, huge, _colossal _boner for _Stan_."

We stare at each other for about five seconds, his words hanging thickly between us. And then, without warning, a fit of laughter bursts from my chest, making Ike's face screw up in confusion. I laugh even harder, clutching my sides, feeling relief spill out of me like a hole in a water balloon.

"_Jesus_, Ike." I croak through hilarity. "You've been talking to Kenny lately, haven't you?"

He looks down at his hands, smiling almost criminally. "He called while you were out."

I gain some control over my amusement, relishing in my thankfulness that he apparently has no clue about Cartman whatsoever. It was comforting to know he was, in fact, _not _a psychic of some sort.

"So admit it." He pries. "You're gay and you like Stan."

The funny thing is that nothing about him seems accusing or critical. He seems genuinely encouraging; excited even. Which really makes no sense when you think about it. Shouldn't he be ashamed to have a queer brother?

"Why should I?" I challenge.

Ike huffs and rolls his eyes. "I love you Kyle, but you're stupid."

My forehead creases. "Hey-!"

"You _are_." He cuts me off, and I wonder how he can insult me like that without sounding insulting at all. "I thought you and Stan were boyfriends since my earliest memory. I didn't exactly understand 'boyfriends', but it was the same sense that you have about your parents. You know they're 'together' even if you can't fully grasp its meaning. It was only after I got older and I understood more that I realized you weren't." He shakes his head, clearing it.

"And that made everything so confusing to me. Nobody could see what I plainly could my whole life. And this is coming from the mind of a child. A _pure _mind that hadn't been altered by society. I didn't know what gay was, I didn't know any of the ethical reason people think it's wrong. I just knew what was there, what was _right._"

I blink. I've never seen him more serious about anything before. He really thought we were boyfriends. Me and Stan. I'm not sure yet what that realization is making me feel.

"You and Stan go together like everything that's meant to go together: The moon and the stars, the waves in the ocean, the clouds and rain. Peanut butter and sour cream." I raise an eyebrow at this last comparison. He continues.

"It's like holding two magnets together, but not quite close enough to let them click.You're so in love with him I can barely stand it. I don't know how you can. And that's why you need to admit it, out loud, in the open, to another human being. If you don't take the first step, you'll always be circling around each other, drawn together by magnetism, and never able to click."

Silence ensues. I stare at the table, picking at the sleeve of my shirt as Ike's intense stare bores into my forehead. I hate having a genius for a brother. Or maybe it's because he _is _a kid, and things are still so less complicated to him. I wish I could see everything with such black and white starkness. In fact, I wish the whole world could.

The doorbell sounds, and I rush to get it, glad for the momentary interruption. I pay and tip the delivery guy, who looks too old to still be doing this, and bring the pizza back to the table. Ike remains silent as I open the box and pass the container of pineapple chunks to him. He accepts it without a word and continues to watch me.

I grab a slice of pizza and take a bite, looking around while I chew. Looking everywhere, that is, except at Ike. I swallow and take a sip of my diet Root Beer. He's still staring.

"_What_?!" I demand wildly.

"Admit it."

"_You_… I don't see how that will do any good." I point out. "Stop being a little shit, and eat the goddamn pizza."

He pulls a string of cheese off the box and shoves it into his mouth with all the frustration I'm feeling inside. "It'll make you feel better. Why don't you want to?"

"Because it's none of your business!" I cry. "And because you're nine!"

He frowns at me. "Age is just a number. You were smart when you were nine, too."

"And I'm a dumb ass now, right?"

"You are when it comes to accepting yourself."

Did I mention that I _hate _having a genius for a brother? I sigh, setting my pizza back in the box, since we were too lazy to pull out plates.

"It's not like I'm asking you to tell mom and dad, just say it to me."

"Will you tell them if I do?" I wonder aloud.

"No."

"Will you tell them if I don't?"

"No."

I take a breath, staring again at the table; at the blue and white checkered tablecloth with the embroidered cherries all over it. I did want to tell someone. My only other option besides Stan had always been Kenny, but Kenny couldn't be trusted not to make a joke out of it. A _perverted _joke, to be more specific. I'd been putting off telling him for that reason alone. But this realization was killing me. I trusted that Ike wouldn't tell anyone. I had told him secrets since he was a baby, but only then because he _couldn't _tell anyone. This time, part of me really trusts that he _wouldn't _tell anyone. He was a great keeper of secrets. I feel my stomach tighten with apprehension and suck in a breath.

"I'm gay." I whisper, mostly to myself.

Ike pokes my arm. "I'm sorry?"

"I'm gay." I announce, louder this time.

"And…?"

"And…" I swallow, bewildered at how dry my throat has gone already. Ike is literally on the edge of his seat, eyes wide, determined not to blink. I don't think he's breathing. "…I like… _Stan_."

Color returns to Ike's face; he breathes. "Say it again." His voice is relieved and laced with joy.

I take my soda can between both hands to feel it's coldness. The aluminum is sweating. I think I am too. "I'm gay… and I like… Stan."

"Again."

"I'm gay… and I like Stan."

"Again!"

"I'm gay and I like Stan."

"_Again!_"

I look up this time, directly into his eyes. "I'm gay and I like Stan!" I shout. "_I'm gay and I like Stan!! I'm _gay_ and I like _Stan_!!! I'M GAY AND I LIKE STAN!!!"_

My voice bounces off the walls, filling the whole house with my announcement. Sweat beads my forehead, and my hands are shaking from the tension that had built me up to this point. But Ike is beaming brighter than a shooting star, and the only thing I can feel now is relief and a sense of empowerment.

"I'm gay and I like Stan! No!" I shake my head, smiling manically. "I _love _Stan! I _want _Stan! I have a _huge, colossal boner _for Stan!"

But then I realize that Ike is peering over my shoulder, his expression wide-eyed and twisted into what I can only describe as a silent, "Oh, _shit._"

My spine stiffens, the tiny hairs on my arms standing on end out of reflex. Ike's jaw is practically hanging on the table. My initial fear is that Mom and Dad walked in the door, but I quickly snub that idea. Mom would be shrieking in shock by now, if not for finding out her son is a homo, then she would for talking like that in front of Ike, who she still believes doesn't even know what a curse word is, let alone a boner. Which couldn't be further from the truth.

My second fear is even worse than the first: Stan himself.

My heart beats faster. "He's standing right behind me, isn't he?"

"No, but _I_ am."

I spin toward the familiar voice, knowing who it is without even having to do so. Kenny stands in the kitchen entryway, his expression torn between shock and amusement. Butters is (once again) at his side, looking about as comfortable as a straight dude at a gay bear fair.

"Oh… hamburgers." His voice trails through the stillness of the house.

"Hi, guys." Ike attempts to return some sort of normality. I turn to glare at him.

"Keep Ike busy," Kenny gives Butters a gentle push toward the table, then grabs my arm and rips me out of the chair. "Come on."

Kenny is stronger than he looks. He forces me out the backdoor and flings me into one of the three matching chairs lined up along the deck, then spins another to face toward mine, takes his own seat, and stares at me expectantly.

I stare back. "… So what are you and Butters up to?"

"Apparently not the same thing you and Stan have been up to!" He blurts.

I cross my arms and look upward, admiring the sky.

"Kyle!" He yelps.

"We haven't been doing anything like that, Kenny, okay?" I throw back. "That was the first time I even admitted that out loud."

"Then it's true?" He's still practically shouting in my ear. "You have a _boner _for Stan?! You're _Ga-_"

I slap my hand over his mouth, glaring daggers into his eyes. "Would you _please _stop yelling like that?"

Kenny pries my palm away. It makes a noise like a wet suction cup. "You're _gay_?" he hiss-whispers.

"Well…" I scratch the side of my nose, turning over the official word in my head. "I'm gay for _Stan_."

"What like… you wouldn't bone _me _but you would bone _him_?" His blatant question makes my cheeks flame. "And if you can't bone him than you're back to chicks?"

"No!"

"Oh, you _would _bone me?"

"Kenny!"

He laughs heartily, perversely. Then leans into my ear. "I'd bone you too, Ky."

"Fuck you, Kenny! This isn't funny!"

"Yeah, it is." He laughs.

I get up to leave, but he grabs my arm and tugs me back down. "C'mon, I've had my suspicions for a while. I just thought I was being a sick bastard like usual, I didn't think I was actually _right_."

"Well, congratulations. You've figured out my darkest secret. Thank you very much, you fucking dick!"

"Fuck, Kyle, calm dow-"

"If you tell Stan I'll personally send you straight to hell!" I grab a fistful of his shirt pull him toward me. His eyes widen, then squint with his smirk.

"Relax," He soothes, sliding his hands up my arms. "I won't tell him. If you fuck me."

I shove him away. "What!?"

"I'm kidding," He laughs. "You do have a hot ass though."

"That's it. I'm leaving." I decide, done with his bullshit. This is why I didn't want to tell him.

"Hey, I'm sorry Kyle." I pause halfway to the backdoor, keeping my back toward him. He takes his cue to go on. "I know this can't be easy. I mean, especially with a mom like yours and a homophobic asshole friend like Cartman…"

I face him again; he's standing right in front of me, eyes rueful. I have to forgive him. That's the thing about Kenny; he's somehow got everyone wrapped around his finger. Even Cartman, to a certain point.

"I'm not ready to tell everyone. Especially not Stan. This could ruin our whole friendship."

"Stan isn't like that." Kenny jumps to his defense. "You being gay wouldn't change his opinion of you."

"But if he knew I was gay for _him_, things could get really awkward between us. And _that _could ruin our friendship."

He closes his mouth, unable to argue my point, then sighs. "I won't tell anyone, Kyle. But I want you to know it doesn't bother me. We're still friends. I'm here for you, and I'll be here for you when you come out to Stan. And Stan will be there for you when you come out to your parents."

I feel another weight being lifted from my shoulders. Two people now officially knew about me, and both of them were still by my side. Ike was right; I needed this. More than I knew. My heart lightens.

"…You and Stan have always been so close, maybe you could even convert him and then-"

I fling my arms around him and we both topple over into the grass.

"The hell?!" He squeaks, but I ignore him and squeeze his body against mine. I love Kenny.

"Damn," He wheezes, trying to suck oxygen back into his lungs. I pull back and he smiles up at me. "I haven't even gotten this much action with a girl. Maybe you'll convert _me, _Kyle of the hot ass."

And then, because he's stupid, I smack him.

-------

**__**

To be continued…

__

-BratChild3


	10. Bed Sheets

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Authors Note: Thanks to everyone who was kind enough to review. I try to respond to everyone, but if I didn't, it's only because I've been trying to get this chapter out. Or, you were anonymous. So special thanks to all the anonymous people, especially the ones who said they never usually review. I appreciate it so much. And yes, all of you in the Netherlands.

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Chapter 10- Bed Sheets

There's something about bad luck; something to that old saying "when it rains, it pours" that seems to be true. And Stan is no exception to this cruel joke fate likes to play.

Wendy's sudden break-off hit him harder than I'd expected. He was fighting the battle of a broken heart and promptly losing, despite everyone's efforts to keep him from drowning in it. Granted, it was only Friday, just under a week, and a few days was barely enough time to have come to terms with the shock of it, let alone begin to heal. But he wasn't even doing that. It was like watching quick sand swallow him up; slow, but so damn quick that if you turn away for one minute, his head might be completely covered when you look back again.

To add salt to the wound, Sparky decided to get sick Tuesday morning. He was such an old dog now, and despite the vets optimism, I felt nervous about it today. He didn't seem to be getting any better. I was careful not to mention this to Stan, but it'd really started to concern me.

Which is why I earned myself a big, fat detention this morning.

I should have expected it. I've never been able to get away with anything. Not that I would do anything wrong even if I were capable, but these were special circumstances, and I always bent the rules if the good outweighed the bad. Right now, Stan needed me, and I was eager to be there for him, or at least be there _with _him.

…So I decided to walk straight out of school third period. And I got caught, by the principal, who called my mom in D.C.

I sat in the corner of the office, picking at the green thread in the hem of my shirt. I could hear her ranting on the line from across the room, because I'm the kid with _that _mother. But I was used to it, so I barely paid any attention; I was too preoccupied struggling with my own thoughts. Thoughts that, of course, revolved entirely around Stan. But eventually I was handed the phone with The Jewish Mother of mine waiting on the other end, and winced as I brought it to my ear.

Our conversation went a little something like this:

Mom: KYLE BROFLOVSKI, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE THIS TIME, YOUNG MAN?!"

Me: I-

Mom: I leave for a _few_ days and you're already getting yourself into trouble? How am I suppose to trust you with anything? I didn't raise you to be a sneaky little bastard! You must be hanging out with Eric Cartman again, aren't you? What do you have to say for yourself?

Me: I-

Mom: Don't you use that tone with me! Oh! Your father will have a few words to say to you when we get back! I don't know where I went wrong! I always tried to tell you right from wrong, but do you listen to ANYTHING I have to tell you? I might as well be talking to a brick wall!

Me: But-

Mom: Do _not _back talk me, Kyle!

In the end my attempts at saving my ass were futile anyway, and I knew it from the get go, but I also knew that if I said nothing, I'd be accused of not listening. There really was no reasoning with the woman.

Not until I mentioned Stan, that is.

Mom completely, utterly adores Stan. There's no other way to describe it. She's the only one of our four parents that hasn't pestered us for spending practically every waking second together. And when Stan started spending most of his time with Wendy and less of his time with me, Mom was the only one to complain. She's more or less won over by his well rounded, all-American style and enduring thoughtfulness.

By the end of our conversation, my sentence had been reduced to washing the car, which was normally Dad's Saturday job. But only because she understood how important Stan was to me, _not _because she "advocated" skipping school. I'm also pretty sure she let me off so easy out of relief. I wasn't cutting class because I was hanging out with Cartman, who she never did bother to hide her disapproval of. It was obvious she considered Stan a better influence. I think it's one of the few things we'll ever agree on.

I served my hour long detention in the library after the final bell sounded, and then had to walk since the buses were already long gone. I had wanted to spend more time with Stan and instead lost two hours for attempting to gain that extra time.

There's a moral in here somewhere, and it's probably somewhere along the lines of: _If you're going to do something wrong, make sure you have a getaway car in case you get caught and the fricken bus leaves your ass behind._

I was only glad Ike was staying at his friend Fillmore's house. It made it possible for me to walk straight to Stan and not have to worry about getting home.

The wind picked up, swirling leaves around me and sent a distinct chill in the air on my way to his house. I squinted up at the dark sheet of clouds, smelling rain. Wasn't that some kind of bad omen? I tucked my hands under my arms and continued onward. It didn't matter really; everything sucked today, but I was on my way to see Stan. Nothing else could go wrong. It wasn't raining _yet._

Thunder cracked in the far distance the same moment rock-sized droplets began pelting down.

"Goddamnit."

I pulled the hood of my sweat jacket over my head and bolted to my destination, which was now in full view. I didn't knock this time; it wasn't normal for either of us to knock on each others doors, and welcomed the dry warmth of his home upon entering.

Mr. Marsh was once again planted in his official spot in front of the TV, a long-neck bottle of beer in one hand and two empty on the coffee table. His eyes were glazed and spacey, but the thing that threw me off was that it wasn't in a drunk kind of way. If anything, he looked sullen. But he didn't seem to notice me. So instead of throwing off his thought pattern, which from the looks of it, could have been anything from undressing the spokes model for tic-tacs on TV to deciding if he wanted to be buried or cremated, and made my way up the stairs to Stan's room.

I found it empty, which hadn't happened once since Wendy's break-up, and after a brief lapse of puzzlement, backtracked to follow the sounds and smells of dinner being prepared in the kitchen.

Mrs. Marsh sighed when she saw me, her face drawn and taught.

"Mrs. Marsh is…" I paused as I studied her. "Is everything okay? Where's Stan?" I pulled at the drawstrings on my hoodie, hating the eerie feeling chilling up and down my spine.

"He's out in the backyard." She sighed again, in that stressed-out way only mother's can do, and dried her hands on a yellow dishtowel. "He's been out there all day and I just haven't been able to convince him to come inside."

Every organ in my body froze with dread, only to restart again in overdrive. It wasn't what she had said, it was the way her words came out, the way she held my eyes, the way her lips were pursed together… and I knew. But I still couldn't help myself, I still had to ask.

"… Why won't he come in?" My voice was whisper thin, like a ghost. She shook her head.

"Sparky died this morning."

And my heart splintered; for Sparky, for Stan. Especially for Stan. And all I could think was, _So what if he refused to come in_, _how can they leave him alone at a time like this?_

I threw the door open and lurched across the yard, letting the cold air nip at my nose and sting my eyes; letting the rain patter against my skin. The yard wasn't very big, but it still seemed to take forever to get to him; to reach the wooden fence in the far corner where he stood, hands in his pockets, face turned downward, letting droplets of rain drip off his nose and onto the mound of dirt beneath the half grown peach tree, Sparky tucked safely underneath.

I slowed when I got closer, my shoes squishing and sloshing in the mud. He looked up at me with those eyes. Those deep, cerulean eyes, rimmed with red, puffy with heartache, but not a single tear in sight. His bangs were plastered to his forehead by the rain, his nose running.

We stared at each other, just _stared_, until the sound of his sniffle broke my trance. I closed the distance between us tentatively, like you would approaching a frightened animal. I pulled him against my body, encasing him in my arms. His soggy clothes seeped into mine; soaking my shirt, my shoes, my skin. I clung to him, pressing my face into his neck, closing my eyes and concentrating on our hearts beating against each other.

He let his forehead fall onto my shoulder, his arms remaining limp at his sides. I could almost actually feel the misery radiating through his skin.

I held him for a long time, waiting. But he never broke down. He didn't cry.

---

That was hours ago. Now I'm sitting with my back against Stan's headboard, a science book propped open on my raised knees. I can hear the spray of the shower through the wall, and chew my lip up thinking about the fact that Stan is beneath it with no clothes on. I find that this knowledge makes it absolutely impossible to study; makes it useless to do anything really, except concentrate on the sound of the water so I won't think about what I really want to be doing right now.

I look at the empty spot next to me. It's illuminated with the soft, yellow glow of the lamp on his bedside table. I reach out slowly, touching the knot of tangled sheets. I'm jealous of them; of the way they wrap and hug him in comfort every night, draping and clinging to every curve, the way they have the privilege of being saturated in the warmth of his body. If I could die and come back Stan's favorite bed sheet, I'd jump out the window right now, not a moments indecision.

The faucet handles squeak and the water shuts off. I close my eyes and picture Stan dripping with wetness, rubbing soap all over his body. I cover my face with my hands and let out a moan caught somewhere between longing and anguish. Being near Stan was like a starving child told not to touch at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Damn near impossible. The only thing that had stopped me so far was fear of losing his friendship. I couldn't live without Stan. Once touch, one kiss… wasn't worth a lifetime without him.

But that was always more convincing when he wasn't close enough to touch. I lost my head far too easily when he was near me.

The bedroom door opens, and my hands fall back down to my science book. The moment they do, I'm glad it's there. Stan closes the door behind him, a towel tucked around his bare torso. I blink, trying to keep my eyes from flying wide and adjust the book appropriately over my lap.

He comes to a stop on my side of the bed, proceeding to rummage through the bottom drawer of his dresser for boxers and, because it's cold, a pair of pajama pants and a plain cotton T-shirt. He throws them on the bed next to me, the shirt landing on my leg, and drops the towel.

Torture. Sweet, delicious, _irresistible _torture.

I shift my book again, then decide to flip it facedown so that the spine creates an upside down 'V' over my lap, giving me plenty of room for things I'm currently needing plenty of room for. I'd been having this problem all week. Being so close to him again was definitely having it's effects on me, and I swear, I've never jacked-off so much in my life. Quietly, of course, inconspicuously; like after I got home from being with him, or if I absolutely couldn't take it, in his bathroom. I had to do _something _to get my mind out of his pants and focused on more important things, like being a good friend to him.

It was true: Since Wendy had come back into his life, he hadn't exactly been there for me. But I've already forgiven him for that. Up until then, he's always been there for me, he's always stood up for me, he's always had my back. I haven't forgotten that. I haven't forgotten that he's still my hero, and that he always will be.

Now it was my turn to give that back; to be _his _hero, and I was more than happy to do that. I could be his superman.

But I can't help but wonder if I'm too weak sometimes. How is it that I can manage to sit here in flames, burning with lust, and at the very same time feel like my heart's being ripped to shreds out of sympathy?

More than anything, I wish I could make love to him. Right now, tonight, on this very bed. Epitome of a teenage boys fantasy to fuck his best friend senseless, maybe; but it isn't like that at all. Not at the moment, at least. It'd actually _mean _something. It'd actually have a point.

If I could, I'd reach out and pull him onto the bed with me, tangle myself up with him, and then saturate him in the feel of my body. I'd kiss up and down his damp skin, make him forget about the world and everything haunting his mind, and I could forget about everything except him. We've always shared everything with each other; I only wish he was able to share his body.

I watch him pull dark blue boxers on, the black elastic band snapping against his skin below his belly button. Next comes the pants, also black. The rim of his boxers show over the top of them. His fingers brush my thigh when he grabs his shirt, making me nearly grunt in surprise. The light touch sends a torch of yearning up my leg. He pulls the shirt over his head as he rounds the bed to the empty side, pulling his left arm through, then pausing on the right. He stares at the floor momentarily, then finishes with the shirt and bends to retrieve something by his foot. He comes up with a stricken expression and one of Sparky's squeaky chew toys in his palm.

I feel my heart break for possibly the millionth time today. "…Stan," I say it gently, setting my science book aside and sitting up.

He shakes his head, ignoring me, and squeezes his eyes and his fist simultaneously. The toy lets out a cheerless wheeze. An instant later he shoves open the window and throws it as hard as he can into the darkness. He slams the window closed again, then turns back toward me, covering his eyes.

I throw my legs over the bed and reach his side in a matter of seconds. I grab his hand and pull him onto the mattress, and he crumples onto his side, back toward me. His right hand is still covering his face, and strangely, he's still not crying.

I'm afraid that something in him has broken. More than just his heart. Until this point, he'd at least seemed human. He'd shed tears for Wendy, though he did what he could to suck it up. He communicated, even if the only thing he'd say was "go away" and "I'm not hungry". At least that was _something. _Today, nothing. Not a word, not a tear, not anything.

I reach over his body to touch his knee, which is curled up to his stomach, feeling relief when he doesn't push me away. I move my hand up to his arm and caress up to his shoulder. My finger gets caught under his sleeve and pulls it up a bit, exposing part of his upper arm. Faint black scribbles catch my attention. I slip my fingers back under the sleeve and pull it up further, revealing sloppy artwork.

"Oh, Stan," I whisper, hurt _for _him rather than _because _of him.

The word "_unloved_" is scrawled across his skin in black ink. It looks faded from his shower, but is still quite visible. It almost looks like he tried to carve it into his flesh rather than just stamp a label on himself. But the skin isn't punctured, which makes it a little easier to bear. I gingerly circle my index finger over the lettering.

So this is what was tearing through his mind. Of course. Who _wouldn't _feel unloved after getting their heart torn out and stomped on? It was so simple really, but so complicated at the same time.

And hurtful. Didn't he know I loved him? I had my secret feelings, but any idiot could see the bond between us. A bond like that didn't come without a deep sense of love, no matter how brotherly it may be. At the same time though, I know that this _is _just my secret feelings pulling out jealousy. Of course Stan knows I love him, but this isn't about me. This is about Wendy. This is about the person he loves and the fact that she decided she doesn't want him anymore.

I crush my chest against his back and prop myself up on my side with my elbow. My fingers stop their circling and lay flat against his arm.

"Stan?"

Silence.

"Stan," My palm begins stroking his arm, almost petting him. I lean over his shoulder and press my cheek against his. "You know I care about you, right, dude?"

My arm twists around his waist and draws him closer. "More than anyone else in the world?" His left hand moves up to help his right cover his face. I pull back and grab his shoulder, rolling him onto his back.

"Please look at me."

I'm surprised at the desperation in my voice, the apparent heartache. Did he know what he was doing to me? Did he _really _not know how much his suffering effected me?

My fingers cuff his wrists and pull them away from his face. I hold them against his chest and watch his face. His eyes are pinched shut. Without thinking, I lean down and kiss his eyelids. Soft, carefully. When I pull back, they're still closed, but no longer clenched.

"Stan?" I pry a hand from his, just now noticing his tight grip on them, and move it up to touch his cheek. His eyes open slowly, but he still isn't looking at me. He's not looking at anything; his eyes are sightless, dead. He stares right through me.

The sting of tears prick at my eyes, but I blink them away. This time, I kiss his forehead, right between those crystal blue orbs. He doesn't so much as flinch. I can't tell if he can even feel it.

I want him to know he's loved; _need _him to know. I wouldn't think of unleashing my romantic feelings on him. Especially now, not when he was so vulnerable. But my friendship for him, our bond, our brotherly love; that was something I had always been free to express. It was something I needed him to know I still cherished.

I adjust myself more comfortably, aligning my body against his. The way we fit so perfectly together makes my breath catch, but I quickly push that thought away. I push all feelings of lust and romance out of my mind, difficult as it is. And it _is _difficult; the most difficult thing I've ever had to do. But I'll do it.

Anything for Stan.

__

Anything.

I lower my face gradually and press my lips to his, giving him a gentle, purely platonic kiss; the kind you see Italian sons and fathers do on TV, only slower, more lingering. Then I press another kiss into his forehead, then his left cheek, his right cheek, his chin. I rub my nose against his, then drag it across his jaw line to the pulse point in his neck. His skin is clean and smells sweet from his shower. I bury my face in the crook of his shoulder and inhale, filling my head and my lungs with Stan.

"You're my best friend," I mutter into his skin. "I'll never leave you."

I lay still after that, listening to the sound of his heartbeat. His breathing becomes deep and rhythmic with sleep minutes before my own consciousness begins to fade.

---

I wake up with my senses buzzing with the scent of Stan. The room is still enveloped in darkness, and a quick glance at the glowing numbers on the alarm clock tells me it's nearing one AM. I dig the heels of my hands into my eye sockets and then drag them down my face. My breathing is jagged and I'm hard as _fuck_. Something tells me I'd just been having an extremely pleasant dream, but I can't quite grip what it was.

I look over at Stan, who's still asleep. We'd somehow become untangled and were now on our designated sides of the bed, though more toward the middle than the edges. He's on his side, facing toward me this time, his limbs curled slightly inward. One of his hands rests on the mattress, pressed against my side. I feel tingles shoot through me when I notice this. If I turned onto my side he'd be nearly touching it. The front of my pants grow.

And then I realize I'd just been kissing him a few hours ago. What the hell was I thinking?! And how the _fuck _had I managed to keep it in the friendship zone?

I lick my lips, and feel my eyes close involuntarily. _Oh, god… _I can still taste him.

I moan and shift restlessly on top of the sheets. I can smell him all over me. Even now, I can feel the heat of his body radiating onto my skin.

I look at him again; let my eyes linger on his perfect face. My gaze travels downward, taking in his entire physique. It fits mine in all the right ways.

I want him. I want to fuck him. So badly I can feel my whole body pulsating with desire. Sparks of pleasure are spearing through my stomach, exploding in every direction from the tiny pressure of his hand against my side. I shift again, disturbing him this time. He stretches and falls back asleep, his knuckles sliding across my skin, his knee bumping my leg. I moan again and reach down to the front of my pants.

__

I should get up and do this in the bathroom, I think. But I can't move. Now his hand _and _his knee are pressed against me. I want more. More touches, more skin, more breath, more Stan. My hand rubs faster as I watch him sleep and concentrate on the small points of contact his body is making with mine right now.

The release is quick and violent, and I'll never know how I got through it without making any noise. Minutes go by with nothing by my breathing filling the room as I slowly descend the cloud I'm on.

My mind starts to clear, and suddenly I remember Sparky. I groan, in mourning this time, and slap my hands over my face.

I feel like the sickest bastard in the universe.

---

**__**

To Be Continued…

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-BC3


	11. Doves

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2nd A/N: Sorry about this, guys. For some reason, when I make changes to a chapter through export on the site itself, it messes up the whole format. I made some changes that those of you who already read this chapter probably wont even notice the difference anyway… but, I needed to, and the only way was to take down the whole chapter and repost. Next chapter is underway and making quick progress.

Authors Note: I hate how long it takes me to update. Sorry about that. I need some Riddlin so I can sit down and pay attention. Warning; don't be scared of this chapter. You'll see what I mean. ;)

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Chapter 11- Doves

Pigeon crap.

I've been sitting here for almost a full hour and I'm just now noticing the abundance of it dried along the cement. I love animals almost just as much as Stan, don't get me wrong, but I am not a birds biggest fan when its ass is higher than my head, for reasons that are self explanatory. So I'm not exactly thrilled with the group of about eight having a convention on the ledge of the same roof I'm sitting under. My stubborn side contemplates standing my ground, since I was here first, but that's just plain stupid.

I quickly move off the concrete steps and plant myself on the curb instead, resting my elbows on my knees with a sigh, and continue to listen to their soft cooing.

I've decided there's only one thing worse than the herring casserole my mom makes every time my aunt comes to visit, and that's Sunday mornings. They like to use church as an excuse to take Stan away from me. The bastards.

Not that I have anything against church. And, if I'm completely honest, I know that it isn't literally to take him away from me. They're just looking after his soul and everything, which I'm completely for. No one cares about Stan's soul more than I do. No; I'm not against church, I'm against separation.

True: I could go in there with him, but I'm afraid my mom would freak if she found out. And she would find out. Small town, you know? Tempting though, especially because I believe in Jesus despite being a Jew. How can I not? He has his own talk show! It's hard not to believe in something that's right in front of your face. If my mom doesn't like it, she'll have to remove me from South Park altogether. Which I would gladly do.

As long as I could take Stan with me.

One of the pigeons, a light gray one, flutters from the roof and picks its way toward me. It stops maybe two feet away.

"I don't have any bread." I announce.

We eye each other a moment. It turns it's head sideways to look up at me.

"I said I don't have anything." I repeat. "and I'm not gonna let you peck at me and crap on my shoes. Go away."

"Go away? Well, shit; love you too, _Kyle_."

I turn the other way, toward Kenny's voice. He's nothing but a towering silhouette against the bright, late morning sun.

"I was talking to the pigeon." I defend myself, shielding my eyes with my hand. "What are you doing out here?"

He drops beside me and pulls a pack of mentholated cigarettes from his pocket. "Need a smoke."

"…You slunk out of church so you could smoke a _cigarette_?"

Kenny shakes a stick from the pack and shoves the rest in his pocket, his expression tinged with guilt. "I know. Butters almost had me off the stupid things, but he's gone for the weekend. I'm trying. I just feel really anxious right now and I'm afraid I might bite somebody if I don't relax."

I raise an eyebrow and inch away from him. I certainly wouldn't put Kenny above biting anyone, so I can't be too careful.

"…And that's not a pigeon." He continues, blowing a puff of minty smoke in the opposite direction of me. At least he's courteous about his retarded habits; he knows I can't stand smokers.

"What do you mean 'that's not a pigeon'?" I challenge. "Any artard can see that that's exactly what it is."

"Yes," He agrees. "But most artards refer to everything in it's simplest form, and that's not a pigeon. That's a dove."

"How do you know that?"

Long exhale. "Stan taught me."

The name makes me whip my head around to look at him. He leans back on his elbow and wiggles a hand into his front pocket.

"What's the difference?" I have to work past my pride to ask. My usually tame level of jealousy has been reaching epidemic proportions lately, if Stan is involved, and the fact that he taught Kenny something he never bothered to tell me is making me feel a bit unscrewed.

"It's just like Ravens and Crows," Kenny offers sweetly, completely oblivious of my sudden desire to stab screw drivers into his eye sockets. "They're almost the same, but Doves are smaller."

I'm glad he's so willing to tell me anything. Maybe he knows something about birds that Stan doesn't and I can impress him with it later.

Kenny finally frees his hand from his pocket and pulls a handful of bread wafers out, tossing them onto the sidewalk for the gray bird. The seven remaining on the roof dive to the ground, their wings sounding like an ocean wave.

"You keep random wafers in your pocket?" I blink at the doves scrambling for their fair share.

"I got them from communion."

"…Communion- Wait, aren't you only suppose to take one?" I could be wrong. I've never gone through the whole eat the body and drink the blood ritual.

"They're free." Kenny snaps. "At least I didn't take the wine, too."

"Kenny… I don't think any amount of praying you did in there can possibly save you from yourself."

"So if you're done condemning me…" He grinds out his cigarette and pulls out a second. "This doesn't exactly look like Synagogue to me, Jew boy. Why aren't you worshipping the giant dreidel?"

My eyes narrow. I hate it when he gets in these moods. He sounds just like Cartman sometimes. As if one anti-Semitic asshole isn't enough.

Kenny pokes my shoulder. "Well?"

"_Because." _I hiss.

A cloud of silence hangs over us as we stew in our anger. Originally, I'd been glad he came out; glad for the company. Most of the time I really like Kenny, and other times, special times like these, I just want him to die. I hug my knees to my chest and glare at the doves dancing around each other on the sidewalk.

Several seething minutes later, Kenny grinds out his smoke again. "I'm sorry, Kyle. I told you, I'm on edge."

I feel my face relax and flash him an apologetic look. I may be quick to anger, but I'm horrible at holding onto it. One apology and I'm ready to forgive. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am too."

He snorts a sarcastic sounding laugh. "Yeah, I'll bet. I'm surprised you're as sunshiny as you are, hanging out with contrary Mary all the time." He nudges his chin toward the chapel, and I know that he means Stan. "Not that I blame him. He's just dealing with things his own way, but it must be hard for you."

I bite my lip and shrug offhandedly. "The only thing that's hard is knowing he's in pain and that there isn't anything I can do about it."

Kenny stifles a laugh, and I scowl at his tactlessness. "What?"

"Nothing." He tries to pull himself together, then gives in and lets the grin he's fighting slice across his face. "I know that can't be the _only _thing that's hard."

My eyebrows scrunch in anger. Kenny doesn't notice; he's too busy pulling out his third cigarette. I snatch it from him before it reaches his mouth. He frowns.

"Really though," He muses. "_Is _that the hardest part? Knowing he's in pain and not being able to make it better? Or is the hardest part really knowing that you can't make it better because only Wendy can?"

I purse my lips together and look away, unable to answer that. I don't want to admit he hit the nail squarely on the head. And I don't have to; the wounded noise my throat issues gives me away. Beside me, I feel Kenny nod and shake out another cigarette. I take that one, too.

He pounds his fists onto his thighs. "_Kyle-!_"

"Where'd Butters go, anyway?" I distract him before he argues his way into getting the cigarette back. I'm concerned about this anyway; Butters needs to come back before Kenny smokes himself to death.

"His Grandma, in Georgia." He's drumming his fingers against his thighs, more anxious now that we're on this particular subject.

"He has a grandma in Georgia?" This is good. Maybe I can rattle him enough to make him whip out the pack again. I'm taking the whole thing as soon as he does.

He flashes a smile. "Where do you think he got that accent?"

"Guess I never noticed he had one before."

"Oh." Pause. "It's faint."

"When's he coming back?"

He bounces his knee and reaches into his sweat jacket. "Late tonight."

I lurch myself across his lap and bat at the tiny white and green carton, which he holds up and out of my reach, successfully managing to keep me from obtaining it.

"One more, okay?" He bargains, holding me back with one hand on my chest. "Just one."

I sigh dramatically and throw myself back onto my spot. His lighter clicks three times, and then another cloud of mint rolls past. I glance over at him; glare is more like it. He's a mess, chain smoking like a crack whore just because Butters isn't here.

My face softens as I consider that, and wonder if I'm on the verge of being that crazy with Stan, or if maybe I already am.

I feel my leg quivering and look down. My own knee is bouncing anxiously, and I've got one arm swaddled across my stomach, hugging myself. The other hand is lodged in my mouth, and I'm chomping my nails down to tiny nubs, waiting for church to get out; anxious for Stan.

I pull my hand out of my mouth and let it fall to my thigh. The absence of nail-biting comfort makes me feel more neurotic than before. My leg bounces faster.

I look again at Kenny, who really isn't any better; cigarette dangling from his lips, fingers twisting at his floppy, golden hair.

"Kenny?" He glances over at me. "We're hopelessly addicted."

He frowns, obviously confused, then pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and holds it out to me, as if that's what I'd meant. I laugh the same moment the oversized bell on top of the chapel begins to gong.

People in suits and dresses begin filing out between the thick double doors, forming small groups around the building to stop and chatter. Stan comes out in a group with his parents, Kenny's parents, Liane, and then Cartman, whose glued to his side. The adults form their own ring, leaving Cartman and Stan to themselves. They huddle together in their own world, Stan's gaze penetrating the ground beneath his black shoes and Cartman talking and laughing, apparently trying to get him to join in. It's actually unsettling how nice Cartman is to Stan when I'm not around. Maybe because Stan is the only person who'll stand up to him and still be his friend at the same time. Everyone else just gets irritated, calls him fat, and gives up. It's a little scary to think if it wasn't for me, they'd probably be best friends. Scarier still to know they once _were _best friends, until Mom enrolled me in pre-K and Stan became totally smitten with the fiery little Jewish kid.

A lovesick smile worms its way up my cheeks, but then Cartman puts his hand on Stan's shoulder to laugh, a genuine laugh for once; a sound I'm almost certain I've never heard from him before. I'm suddenly frowning and not quite sure what I'm feeling at all.

My eyes flit back to Stan. His hands are in the pockets of his suit, and he's facing Cartman, but his eyes are still lowered. He seems to be listening, but he isn't responding.

His pants and suit jacket are light gray, but the shirt underneath is white. The only other color on him is his tie and shoes; both black. This is the first time I ever really paid attention to his Sunday clothes before. A lot of people look like dorks when they have to dress up, but Stan… he looks incredible. My opinion is probably biased, all things considered, but who gives a fuck? Stan in anything, or in nothing at all, equals yummy. And my mouth is definitely watering.

"You are so love struck."

Kenny's watching me, his eyes intent through the golden bangs billowing in his face.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." He laughs when it's apparent my brain isn't functioning enough to respond, then nudges my knee with the back of his hand and pushes himself up. "C'mon, lover lips, lets go rescue him before he gets stuck talking to old ladies who wear too much perfume."

We push ourselves up from the curb, turning to face the mobs of people. Kenny hands me his pack of cigarettes, which I stare at before accepting hesitantly. I raise an inquisitive eyebrow at him. He smiles sheepishly.

"Told you I'd only have one more. I may be a lot of things, Kyle, but a promise breaker isn't one of them." His smile changes to one of genuine companionship, which I slowly return until we're both beaming at each other.

"Kyle? You smoke?"

The voice breaks the spell, and suddenly we're both staring uneasily into the eyes of Wendy Testaburger. My jaw slacks a bit and I look down at the pack in my hands.

"Uh, no. These aren't mine." My voice is broken and unsure, making me sound guilty as sin. But the truth is that I'm just plain stunned by her presence.

"They're mine," Kenny offers, after recovering and pulling his jaw up off the ground. "Kyle's getting rid of them for me, because if he doesn't, I'll have them all smoked in a half hour."

"Mmm," She acknowledges, the puzzled look on her face wiped clean. Apparently it's a lot easier for her to believe Kenny smokes than me.

Kenny doesn't seem to care. He studies her carefully, raising his eyebrows in open curiosity. I stare down at my shoes uncomfortably and wish she wouldn't look at me like that.

"Right… so, Ky, I'll just be… over there." Kenny nudges his chin toward Stan, gives one last look between us, and then darts off.

I watch him go, still feeling the piercing blue of Wendy's eyes on mine. I don't really want to be alone with her, but it's apparent it's me she's wanting to talk to. Goddamnit. I should have gone to my own worshipping grounds this morning.

"Kyle?" She finally speaks, her voice soft as the breeze.

The look I give her is slow and reluctant. I don't understand why I feel almost guilty being near her, as if everything that had gone wrong was my fault because I wanted Stan all to myself. But thinking something, wanting it, can't make it happen. It wasn't like I somehow influenced her to break up with him. That was her decision alone, so I have nothing to feel bad about. She does, though. She's the one who did this to him.

"Kyle," she says again.

"What?" I hiss at her.

She puckers her lips at my rudeness, but decides to ask anyway. "How's Stan?"

My eyebrows scrunch with a blink. "Oh, gee, I don't know, Wendy. The girl he loved more than anyone else in the world broke his heart and then his dog _died_," She gasps at this bit of news, but I ignore her shock. "How do you _think _he's doing?"

The sound of church chatter swirls around us in the silent seconds she takes to absorb the news about Sparky from my harshly serious expression. Then her parted lips close as her eyes slip down to her shoes. "Probably pretty bad." She whispers.

"Yeah." I snap. "Pretty bad."

"I'm glad you're so loyal to him, Kyle." She's still talking to the ground. "He really needs you right now."

I scoff at her words, giving her a disgusted once over. She really does look good in blue. I hope Stan didn't notice. "Yeah, I know he does. Because of _you._"

"Look," She barks, pointing at me, Caribbean colored eyes finding mine. "I didn't come over here so you could make me feel guiltier than I already do."

"Then why _did _you come over here, Wendy?" I snap back. "You think asking how he is will somehow make up for what you've done to him? You obviously don't give a shit about him, so why don't you leave us both alone?"

"Don't you tell me I don't care about him. I care about him plenty."

"Right. Sure you do." I try to brush past her, but she grabs my hand, pulling me toward the church. "What the-"

"Shut up!" She drags me around the side of the chapel and shoves me against the wall. Luckily, though, she releases my collar and takes a step back. I rub the shoulder she pushed and glare up at her, fire shooting into each others eyes.

"That is not fair." She finally growls, forcing out each word between her teeth.

"Oh, and what is?" I demand. "You think what you did to Stan was _fair_? Playing with his heart and then just _dumping _him like that?"

"Stop!"

"Do you know he was going to buy you a _ring_?"

"_Stop it!_"

"No! I'm _not _going to protect you from the truth!" I howl. "You hurt him more than anybody else ever could! _You _did that, Wendy! It wasn't fair to lead him on!"

"You know what wouldn't have been fair?!" She screams into my face, grabbing handfuls of my shirt. "Staying with him when I don't love him that way! _That _would have been leading him on! _That _wouldn't have been fair!"

I take a breath, feeling my whole body shake. My heart is aching at her words; aching because I know how badly this would hurt Stan if he heard it. Part of me, I realize, wants her to love him, just to put his misery to an end. No matter how much that would kill me, it'd be worth it. I'd take all the pain in the world so that he wouldn't have to feel one ounce of sadness ever again. Stan linking his life with someone else would be easier to bear than seeing even a single tear slide down his cheek, even if the pain of it would cripple my heart for life.

My breath is coming out in angry, hot puffs, matching her equally furious stare. I ignore her fingers digging into the collar of my shirt and manage to speak with some level of control over the volume of my voice.

"Then why were you with him in the first place? You could have spared him all this heartache, but you didn't!" My voice cracks, and the emotions pour out again. "Why didn't you, Wendy? Because you're a selfish bitch, is that it?!"

"No!"

"Then why?! Why would you do something so hurtful to someone like Stan?!"

"Because _you _asked me to!" She admits, giving me a frantic jerk. "Because _you _wanted me to go out with him and I can't say no to you, Kyle!"

The words seem to echo all around us, hanging jaggedly in the air, crackling like the atmosphere during a lightning storm. The significance of them whisk the anger and accusations from my mind, leaving me to stare; blankly, awed.

She lets go of my shirt and looks downward, covering her face with her hands. A curtain of glossy, midnight colored hair drapes over them. "God, please say something."

I've frozen to the spot, unable to open my mouth to even attempt such a feat. I can't form words, sentences, thoughts. I heard her wrong. That had to be it. Or else this really _is _a parallel universe.

It takes me a minute, but I finally choke and sputter, "_Why_?"

"Because," She murmurs into her palms. "I want… _you._"

Dread is as thick as peanut butter, and I can feel it filling me up; swirling down my throat and cutting off my windpipe. And all I can ask is please, just let this all be a nightmare.

When she pulls her hands away, I realize how miserable she looks. Pale, chalky, deep purple rings under her eyes, suffering just as badly as Stan is. And now she won't look at me; and now I can't _stop _looking at her.

She wets her lips nervously, one arm around her waist, the other still covering her right cheek. "I wasn't going to tell you this."

"Then why are you?" I blurt, unable to contain myself. I didn't want this, and I certainly didn't want to hear about it.

"Because maybe I shouldn't protect you from the truth, either." Our eyes meets each other again, but we quickly look away, embarrassed.

"You don't want me, Wendy."

"Yes, I do."

"No-"

"More than I've ever wanted anything." Now she looks at me. Dead on, but I'm too much of a wuss to do anything but continue staring at the tiny weeds poking through the crack of the cement.

"You're incredibly sweet, and smart. You made me feel better when Kenny and Cartman frustrated me to tears. I love hanging out with you. I always tried to get you to come along more…"

"…Yeah." I remember, suddenly feeling sick. What was it Stan had asked me not two weeks ago?

She likes hanging out with you, what's wrong with that?

I hug my stomach, suddenly thinking of a whole list of things that were wrong with that.

"I love Stan," Wendy promises, changing the subject. I think maybe she can sense my sudden urgency to run away from her. That, or else I've turned an incredible shade of green and she doesn't want me to vomit on her Sunday dress. "I do. Just not… enough. Not in the right way."

"But you played him along anyway?" I ask for clarification. "Because I _asked _you to?"

"No. No, not just because you asked me to." She hugs herself again, both arms this time, squeezing her eyes closed like she's trying to hold herself together. "Because I know this will never work. You and me… because of Stan. I have to move on regardless; but then you asked me to. And I thought… I thought maybe I could learn to love him that way, because I already do love him. It's what he wanted, it's what you wanted, and I thought maybe if I could want it too, that all these feelings I have for you would go away."

Laughter from the distance is carried around us from the breeze; seeming almost like a mock. Something inside me wants to punch whoever it is.

"But they didn't go away, Kyle. They just got… so much worse. Or better… or," She opens her eyes, steps closer. "I got to spend more time with you and I liked… I _loved _every minute of it. It didn't take long before it was you I was seeing every time Stan kissed me."

"Wendy," I warn.

She ignores me. "But I fought it, and I won. Most of the time. But then there was that night… at the art museum. You said such amazing things about that painting-"

"They were only words." I insist.

She shakes her head. "They were your soul."

I don't like this staring spell we keep falling into, like some hypnotic trance of tension. I'm fighting off her affection gaze with a brutal one, and I'm completely losing.

"You let me see your soul, and in that moment, it was all over for me. I wanted you, and I knew that no matter how hard I tried, I could never feel that way for Stan."

"Please don't tell me this," I cover my ears with my hands, looking about as mature as a five year old. She pulls them down by my waist and doesn't let go.

"I could have stayed with Stan to get closer to you." She states simply. "But I didn't, because I do love him. So when I realized I couldn't love him more, the way he deserves to be loved, I had to set him free. For him, Kyle. Not for me, or you, or anyone else."

Several heartbeats of silence pass before I gingerly slip my wrists from her hold. "I've got to go… to… I… back to- Stan."

She nods, disillusioned as I ease around her. I almost think I'm free until her hand shoots out to grab my wrist again. I stop, but I don't turn around.

"Promise me we can talk more later," she breathes. "after everything, I thought we've kind of become friends, too." She waits patiently for my answer, her fingers never loosening until I answer.

"Okay."

I find Stan in the same place I'd seen him last, Cartman still at his side, but with Kenny now decorating the other. I push my way between Stan and Cartman, ignoring the latter boys' protests.

"Hey," I whisper softly. "How's it going?" I don't expect an answer; I've gotten used to zombie Stan over the course of the past week, but he still needs to know I care. Now more than ever.

I slip my hand protectively into his and link each of our fingers together, hoping to distract him enough to keep him from noticing Wendy among the quickly thinning crowds.

He's curious enough to glance down, and, though it's weary, it makes me smile. We haven't done this since we were about eight years old, and I have to admit; it feels pretty damn good.

------

Going out to brunch with a clan of other church members is evidently some sort of ritual I'd never been aware of before. But, I was invited this time by Mrs. Marsh, who may have only done so because I wasn't about to let go of her son's hand anytime soon, no matter who I had to shoot.

They choose Benny's, and we sit around a long table in the middle of all the booths. Parents chattering on one end, and the three of us; Stan, Kenny, and me on the other. Cartman and his mom hadn't gotten here yet, and I was hoping they'd ended up bailing, but I never did have much going for me in the luck department.

"Well?" His voice hisses into my ear after a mere five minutes of peace.

He drops into the chair beside mine and scoots it over until the legs clunk each other. I feel my nose scrunch up like I smell something horribly tainted and make a show of scooting away from him.

"Well, _what_? And don't… _sit _so close to me, it's just… fuckin' sick, dude." I wave my hand at him in a "shoo" motion.

"That's not what you thought last week."

My mug of sugar-free hot chocolate is slammed into his face before my brain can even comprehend what my hand has done. It's not so much an act of girlishness, like when they slap you across the face for being a dick; but more of a reaction to shut him up before he says something _really _stupid.

"Aye!" He wipes his face, then stuffs his fingers into his mouth. It doesn't take long for him to decide this wasn't a punishment at all.

"Cartman, you _stupid _asshole!"

"What?!"

"What the hell are you bringing up _that _for?" I scorn, thoroughly disgusted with him. "Wasn't it _your _idea to pretend it never fucking happened?!"

"Calm down, Jew, don't wet your pretty little panties."

My fingers curl into my palms. I wish I could kill him, but I can't right now; there's too many witnesses.

Kenny peeks at us over the top of his menu. "What never happened?"

I stomp Cartman's foot this time. He lets out a strangled cry and string of threats as I yank Stan from his chair and move around the table.

"Switch seats with us." I demand of Kenny, who hesitates only a moment before deciding he'd rather not mess with me when Cartman already was. He's table partners with fatass in a flash of blonde and orange.

Stan settles into his new seat with the obedience of a trained teacup poodle, which Cartman directs his disgusted grunt at. We stare each other down until Kenny's so uncomfortable he's fidgeting with his silverware.

"So-" He starts.

"What were you doing with Wendy?" Cartman demands, the spell now broken.

"Cartman, shut up!" Kenny wheezes, jamming his elbow into his soft ribs. We both shoot Stan anxious looks, but he hasn't seemed to have noticed, or care, for that matter.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Kenny motions his hand at Stan.

Cartman looks at him and scoffs. "Hey, I'm not the one running off behind the chapel with-"

"Shut up." It comes out a low growl between my lips.

"I'll tell them." His chocolate brown eyes narrow with the sickness of his smile. "I'll tell them every detail. I remember it very well."

"What do you want?"

"To know what you were doing."

"Asking about him." I nudge toward Stan, much harder than necessary. I think I feel a muscle in my neck almost rip. "That's all."

The finality of my words lay like a thick layer of fog. I hate lying. Even to Cartman. But I will if that's what it takes to protect Stan. He stares into my eyes, either trying to determine any deception in my answer or hypnotize it out of me, I'm not completely sure. I know when he's decided I'm telling the truth by the way tension leaves his body.

Kenny's decided not to care by this point, looking over his menu and also heavily engaged in a one-sided conversation with Stan.

"…would probably be cool, right?" He blinks his eyes, which are too big for his small frame, and then glances up at us.

"We were just deciding what to do for his birthday." He closes his menu and sets it aside with an air of dignified maturity.

"Oh, yeah, huh?" Cartman asks, sounding almost happy again. "Stan's birthday's in a few weeks."

"The big one-six." Kenny beams. "You're finally _almost _old enough to buy Playboy."

I feel my face screw up in distaste, but ride it out smoothly. "We've been getting our hands on those since we were twelve." I remind him.

"Totally." He chuckles to himself.

"We should do something really kewl, you guhs." Cartman interjects. "Like… um, like…"

"We should do whatever Stan wants to do." I opinionate. "It's _his _birthday, after all."

"He wants to have a sweet ass party like on TV; with alcohol, loud music, and naked chicks."

"No, Kenny," I shake my head. "That's what _you _want."

"Me and Stan are one in heart and body." He pouts. The look I give him makes him shrink into his chair. "I'm kidding. _Fuck_. But what if he does want that?"

I shrug at that. "Then that's what we'll do. Whatever makes him happy."

Maybe a loud, cheerful party would make him feel better. And maybe me, too. I've been wound so tight lately, even I accused myself of being on my period this morning. We could both let loose and have some fun.

…Although, the party I had in mind involved me and Stan alone. No alcohol, no loud music, and definitely no naked chicks.

I feel myself blush and hide behind my menu.

Kenny throws a wadded napkin at me. "You're redder than you're hair, Ky. Thinking about those naked chicks?" He gives me a wink, deciphering 'naked chicks' to 'Stan'.

A grin tears across my face as the waitress stops at the end of the table. Cartman orders before she even gets the chance to ask what everyone wants. Kenny orders next, which I copy-cat, and then she gives Stan a gentle touch.

"What'll it be, cutie?" Her voice is scratchy from too many cigarettes, but it's softened with compassion.

Stan blinks at the table. I don't think he's even noticed her. It's not that he'd been ignoring anyone, he was just so lost in his mind he wasn't paying any attention.

"He'll have the pancakes," I speak up. "Chocolate chip. And some more milk, please."

She quickly jots it down, nodding as she goes. "It comes with eggs. Sunnyside-up?"

"No, he hates fried," I answer. "Better go with scrambled." I stack mine and Stan's menus and pass them to her.

"You know," She smiles. "That's so sweet of you to remember what your boyfriend likes."

I literally feel myself reel back in shock. "…Oh, he's not my-"

"It's okay." She winks. "I know." Kenny and Cartman give her horrified looks, and we all three gawk at her as she makes her way around the table, taking the rest of the orders. When she walks away, Kenny and Cartman burst into hysterics.

I'm smiling thoughtfully into the table.

---

**__**

TO BE CONTINUED…

-------------------------------

-BC3


	12. Vampire

**Authors note: **Congratulations to Zak for giving me my 200th review! And everyone else who's taken the time last chapter to review. I've honestly gotten some of the best reviews for this story, and I really hope to see more. Some of my stories end badly, and some end good; those of you who know that about me I think are kinda nervous because of that. No matter what the outcome, I hope it'll be satisfying. All I can say is that you need to trust me to give the story the ending it should have.

Again, thanks guys. I appreciate you so much.

**---**

**Chapter 12- Vampire**

The talking started Tuesday afternoon.

It was like a breath of fresh air after drowning for a week, and so sudden, like breaking the surface of a flood. One minute I'd been arguing with Cartman about whether or not Ike looked like a trashcan, who wasn't even there to defend himself, and the next we'd been silenced by a small, "I'm tired."

The three of us, which included Kenny, froze at the sound, then all turned toward Stan at once. It was like he hadn't even spoken at all; head still down, bangs covering his eyes, lips wrung in a perpetual frown. But he had spoken, I was sure of that. One glance at the other guys, who stared back at me with a questioning, confirmed it.

"You… you ready to go home?" I tried not to sound shocked or hesitant, but I'm sure I failed. He seemed so frail, like a whisper of breath could make him disintegrate. I got a nod in response. It was such a simple gesture, but we all had to suppressed our smiles. "Want me to come with you?"

He thought about this, which made me feel like he were pouring scalding battery acid over my heart. I thought for a minute that maybe I'd been hovering too much; maybe he needed away from me. And then his answer, a small and almost timid "Yeah", came out apologetic. It's all he needed to say for me to understand his uncertainty. "Only if I wanted to" would have been the rest of his response, but I didn't make him say it.

I said my goodbyes to Cartman and Kenny and linked my fingers with Stan. Back at my house, he fell asleep listening to "The catcher in the rye", which I'd been reading to him all that week. It was something that got both of our minds off our own problems, and something that'd give us extra credit in English if we wrote a report. And afterward, when I was certain he was too deeply unconscious to wake without some hardcore shaking; I put the book aside and slid closer, until my thigh touched his and his breath hit my neck in warm puffs, then I closed my eyes and let the tingles melt my bones, thicken my blood, and tickle my body all the way down to my toes. This time I didn't rush to the bathroom to "take care" of things, but kept my hands above my waist and let the emotions I felt for him flow through my soul, until my body surrendered to the quietness of his room and my mind sunk into an endless wasteland of dreams.

The talking continued from then on out, coming in small fragments during moments we weren't expecting it. Answers, statements, observations; always so short we never actually saw him speaking, and when we looked at him, it was like he hadn't spoken in years, or hadn't even been listening. He'd become a shell, a rain cloud, and even more than that, a mystery.

I'm ashamed to admit it, but I'd be lying if I said that part of me wasn't enjoying this a little bit. I had Stan completely to myself; all day, every day. It was never a burden for me. In fact, I welcomed it with an enthusiasm that left our friends baffled. And the handholding, which was something that continued at school, at home, and in town, was my primary source of enjoyment, like a healing balm to my torment. Linked together by our fingers, palm to palm, skin against skin, tingles zapping through my veins.

No one said anything about it, at least not where I could hear them. It was something I was sure I wouldn't normally get away with. The situation had to be grave, dire; and it was. I craved touching him, I needed that contact with a ferocity that scared me a little bit, or maybe it scared me beyond comprehension.

I was unhinged, I knew that much, and Stan's hand was like the glue holding me together, keeping my brittle heart from splintering all to pieces. Because despite any sick enjoyment I was milking from it, the heartache outweighed it tenfold. There's nothing like seeing the one person you love more than life retreat into themselves and disappear into the emptiness of their embittered heart; there's no pain that can compare, because losing a soul to nothingness has a flavor all it's own; one that lingers on your lips like the afterthought of a bad dream.

But even dreams stopped after a while. I'd been finding it increasingly difficult to sleep with his body so close to mine. Every night became a battle against horrendous fits of lust that licked at my flesh like fire; white-hot flames which failed to be quenched by either my hand or the fantasies plaguing my mind with a vividness that almost left me questioning reality. It was my own personal hell, but a hell I didn't want rescuing from.

Somewhere along the line I began to lose myself in his isolated world. I was shivering inside, quaking down to my bones with depression, morphing into some kind of zombie myself; half tortured, half love crazed, delirious with lust and possessed by heartache.

But nobody could see it, and maybe I didn't want them to. I was too in love to want to be saved, which made me think; maybe Stan was too.

---

"I think we should try something else today." I broadcast, sitting at the breakfast table with Stan to my right and Ike and his best friend, Fillmore, across from me.

I take a break from my oatmeal to glance at Stan, whose efforts at eating his are tired and slow. His spoon clunks into the ceramic bowl, drags across the bottom, and then slips between his lips, where the process begins all over. He says nothing to my comment, but I'm not surprised by this. I tinker with my spoon and continue, impervious.

"I know you haven't exactly been on good terms with, you know, _daylight _or anything, but lets face it, Stan, you're not a vampire. You need fresh air."

"I completely agree," My mom breaks in, sailing into the kitchen in her avocado green bathrobe.

"_Mom_! Gross!" Ike slaps his hands over his eyes, dropping his spoon into his bowl of _Cheerios_ and splattering his pajama top with milk. "Please tell me you aren't naked under that."

Humor is not something I find in much lately. Still, I have to laugh along with Fillmore at my brothers' mortification.

"Ike, don't be silly," she chides as she fills the coffee pot with fresh water. "Everyone is naked underneath their clothes."

"Well, _yeah_," He says. "but most of us wouldn't be in danger of displaying our entire anatomy if a slight breeze decides to blow."

I shove my fist in my mouth, trying hard not to let the laughter overtake me. I have no idea how high her tolerance is this morning since it tends to vary from day to day. The last thing I need is another grounding when I'd just had a near miss for ditching school.

"You've been watching a little too much late night television, Mister Man. I've got a nice pair of flannel pajamas under here, so you have nothing to worry about." Mom flips a switch, filling the kitchen with the scent of freshly brewed coffee in a matter of minutes. "And by the way, Stanley, that was just your father on the phone. He called to inform me he'll be picking you up in about ten minutes."

"What?" I choke and cough on my milk.

"Kyle, be careful." She warns.

"Mom, how could you?" Betrayal rings my voice. "You know we were gonna get out and do something besides mope around today. I told you that last night, weren't you listening to me?"

"I understand that, Bubbe, but I had nothing to do with it. Mr. Marsh is the one who called me. If he wants to take his son out, then there isn't anything we can do about that." She sponges off the countertop and I sink angrily into my chair. "Honestly, Kyle, I think this will do the both of you a world of good. Stanley knows I love him like one of my own, but the two of you need some time apart with your own families. You haven't left each others side in weeks now, it just isn't healthy."

"Bite me." I mutter to myself.

Ike suppresses his own laugh at my chagrin, then points his dripping spoon at me. "That's okay, Kyle, we're going to a movie today," He leans across the table to whisper. "And if you come with you can get us into something good."

"I heard that," Mom snaps. "Your brother will not help you sneak into an R-rated movie, Ike." She pats my pouty cheek on the way past. "He's much too mature for that."

My brother crumples dramatically into his chair, his sour expression mirroring mine. We both proceed to seethe as our friends' continue eating; Ike's cereal getting soggy and my oatmeal getting lumpy, the both of us too hung up on our pride to save our breakfasts from this imminent doom. Our eyes find each other across the new apple and pear patterned tablecloth, shooting silent messages of rebellion to one another. But despite all the frustration I'm feeling, a smile tugs at one corner of my mouth. Being nearly sixteen, I must look twice as ridiculous as he does.

Ike's lips twitch. He's so stubborn he's fighting it; then suddenly he flashes his teeth, beaming at me in delight. I smile back and wrinkle my nose, which has made him laugh since he was a baby. He chuckles and looks to Fillmore, who smiles back at him even though he'd been too busy playing the games on the back of the cereal box to even know what was going on.

I've noticed something peculiar about the way they interact with each other. They've been best friends for years, just like me and Stan. But unlike us, there's something completely different about their relationship. They don't stand very close, and they aren't very touchy. They don't share moments of silent glances where each knows what the other is thinking. They don't share the same bed when Fillmore sleeps over, drink out of each other's cups, or spend every weekend together.

Stan and I do all of that, and more, all of which could be considered totally gay.

So what did that mean?

"Good morning everyone," I hear dad chime at the same time as the doorbell. He scratches his freshly showered head and opens the door. "Oh, good morning, Randy. What brings you here?"

"Seems my son's moved in with you, but I've come for my visitation rights." He jokes.

I feel my face scrunch up and spin toward Mom. "That wasn't ten minutes!"

"Hey, Stan, ready to go? It's just you and me today, we can have some nice father-son bonding time." Randy calls from the living room.

Stan gets up with all the eerie silence of the walking dead and begins rinsing his dishes in the sink.

"I'll get those," Mom grabs his spoon and throws it into the dishwasher. "Have fun, Stanley, and tell your mom I said 'Hello' when you get back home."

My fist is clamped around my milk glass, squeezing so hard my fingers are white. I close my eyes and grit my teeth, wondering why it's so difficult for me to let him go. His shoes move slowly across the floor.

_Clunk… scrape… drag… clunk… scrap… drag…_

"Stan," I grab his hand when he starts to pass me by and stare desperately up at him.

He hesitates, looking down out of the corner of his eyes at a spot on the linoleum floor near my sock covered feet. My windpipe tightens, stifling a whimper. Suddenly this departure is making my lungs feel too heavy to properly expand with air. I cover the hand I'm holding with my other one. He gives it a firm squeeze, then pulls away.

A cloud of Stan scented air breezes past me as he walks away, and in a matter of seconds, he's gone.

-----

My hand is naked.

That's how it feels without his warm fingers curled around mine, as I walk down the center of town alone; exposed and cold. And lonely. My hand is lonely for his and I keep robotically reaching out for it and coming up with nothing.

I hold my palm up for inspection, clenching and unclenching my fist. I sigh and fish inside my pocket, pulling out my green mittens. But even the snug woven cotton doesn't help. I frown and shove my hands deep in my pockets, hoping for some kind of comfort.

His birthday is less than two weeks away now. I've been mulling it over in my head and still can't figure out what I should get him. Normally I would've already had it bought and wrapped, but this just isn't our year. What do you get someone in a position like his? What could he possible want?

I press my face against the cold glass of a department store window. A row of glittering rings set with crystals and diamonds twinkle up at me; a rainbow of promise rings. Jealousy slices through my stomach as I wonder which color Stan had planned to get for Wendy. Maybe blue to set off her eyes; or red for the passion he felt. Maybe a white diamond, because it's beautiful and dazzling like her smile.

I glower and turn back down the street, trying to forget about it. A tumble of autumn colored leaves scatter ahead of me, making October feel more official, and I try to focus on the smell of pumpkin bunt cakes baking in the coffee shop up ahead.

…But I wonder: _is _Stan romantic? Did he put that much thought into a gift to make sure whatever he got held a special meaning? Would he have given her the ring and then showered her in hugs and kisses? Was he sweet and unpredictable and affectionate?

I'm baffled, realizing suddenly there's a part of him I have no idea about. No matter how well I know him, I'll never know what he's like in a love relationship. I could get an idea from watching, but that wouldn't be the same thing. He couldn't fully change into boyfriend mode with his friends around. What is he like when he's alone with the person he loves?

My shoes slow until I come to another stop, and I gaze at my reflection in the glass of another store. My eyes stare back at me sadly.

What kind of a boyfriend would _I _be? Could I give him everything he needed? I'm not sure that I could. Sometimes I think I'm not even a very good best friend, not with the thoughts I've been keeping from him.

He's always been the perfect best friend. He always made me feel safe and wanted. And yes; loved. What would it feel like to have more? To be hugged and cuddled? What do his kisses taste like? If I were his boyfriend, would he…?

I shake my head and march away, not allowing myself to keep thinking down that path. It's a forbidden no-zone. Besides, if I were good for him, if I could ever hope to be his everything, I wouldn't be failing him now. He'd be healing, and the emptiness in his eyes would have long since vanished. But it's still there, and I know that even if I could shatter that, I'd only open a torrent of pain that's been frozen underneath. Why pick at a scab when I'll only make it bleed?

A woman with a pack of children whoosh past, shoving me to one side and nearly knocking me off balance. I don't even have it in myself to feel the least bit irritated. Instead, I stall; watch them as they disappear through other South Parkians weaving in and out of one another, enjoying their weekend with somewhere to go and someone to be with.

I squint through the sunlight, then sigh and lower my eyes to my shoes. One of them is about to come untied, but I'm distracted by movement to my left and peer into the Pet Shop I've stopped in front of.

Five golden puppies yap and nip at each other in a small pen filled with soft wood shavings. I've never been much of a pet person, maybe because Mom would never let me have any, but I still like animals and would normally get some sort of enjoyment out of watching them. But all can see now is the look on Stan's face when he'd found Sparky's abandon toy left over on his bedroom floor; the way the pain cut through him and the light flickered out of his eyes, the way he's completely died on the inside.

… and then I remember his smile.

A broken sob rips through my chest and I slam my fist against the glass. I hate dogs for making him hurt. I fucking hate the bastards! Maybe Sparky was the last straw. Maybe if it hadn't been for that damn mutt, everything would be okay. I don't know, but maybe. Just _maybe_.

I press my hands to the saline spilling down my cheeks and sink to the cold cement. Weakness overtakes me, and my shoulders shake as I hug my shins and wail into my knees.

Helplessness has no cure. You can be the most optimistic person to live and breathe and still find yourself consumed by the desperateness of it all. If you've ever experience something so morbidly painful you'd give anything, even your life, to fix it; if you've ever loved someone so much that their pain hurts you more than it hurts them; if you've ever been powerless to help the person who means everything to you, then you know how I feel right now, right this moment, and every miserable second my heart continues to beat.

I stay that way for a long time, ignoring the people who ask if I'm alright. Isn't it fucking obvious I'm not? Am I somehow not being clear that I want everyone to go to hell and leave me the fuck alone? Maybe I should make a goddamn cardboard sign to wear around my neck that says "_Piss Off_" in case I have any more public meltdowns in the future.

The tears keep coming, ripping from the deepest chamber of my heart. And I can't make it stop, and I don't even want it to stop. I hadn't realized the torment had built this thick inside me, or that the look in his eyes haunted me to the core, or how miserable I've become.

But it had, and it did, and I was. I really, _really _was.

I cry until every ounce of liquid is extracted from my body and I feel too weak to lift my head from my knees. I stay huddled in that position, letting the salt from my tears dry into crusty, red trails down my cheeks, feeling broken and vulnerable and alone.

A gust of gentle wind chills my skin, making me shiver down to my bones; then I freeze at the familiar scent it carries with it and groan inwardly.

He plants himself next to me, the sound of his jacket crinkling as he does.

"Go away." I mumble into my knees.

He doesn't respond, but he doesn't fulfill my request, either. The breeze gets a little heavier, swirling his scent around me. It makes me sick to remember why I know it so intimately.

I slip my hands between my knees and face and try to wipe the evident sadness away before peeking up at him. Cartman sits with his chin in his palm, staring off somewhere in the distance.

"Cartman?"

He blinks as the breeze kisses against his eyelashes. "I've never seen anyone so…" His tone is solemn and carries away.

I lift my head to see him better, trying not to care, but already deeply concerned.

"His eyes are so empty," he continues, quietly. "It's kind of scary."

I'm sitting here, staring, trying to find any incriminating evidence that this is somehow another trick. His expression is softened with worry, and I can't help but notice how much better he looks that way.

"Yeah," I finally respond. "It kind of is."

"I don't know how you can stand being near him all the time." He admits. "I can barely look at him anymore."

I glance at my arms crossed on top of my knees. "That's what you do when you love someone."

"Love," Cartman snarls, but his features can't retain the harshness right now, and it fades again into apprehension. "He loved Wendy, and look at what that got him." He runs all ten fingers over his face and through his hair, like he's been stressing about this for days; and maybe he has. "Is this what she's capable of? Look at what she did to him, Kahl. If I keep trying to pursue her and get what I want, am I next?"

I'm already shaking my head before he's even finished. "I don't think that Wendy's done anything bad, Cartman. I… she didn't meant to cause him so much pain."

"How do you know?" Suspicion creeps into his tone.

"I just do." I reply curtly. "Wendy is a good person. It's why Stan cares about her so much."

"And that bothers you, doesn't it?" My silence irritates him. I can see his fingers curl into fists out of the corner of my eye. "I'm not a fag, Kahl."

"I know."

"But you are."

"… That doesn't mean I wanted what happened between us to happen, or that I even enjoyed it." I reply slowly.

"It… doesn't?" We're not looking at each other; we can't. Instead we're both boring holes into the cement with hard stares.

"No. That's like saying you would enjoying screwing anything female just because you're straight, and I really don't think you have any interest in my mom, now do you?"

His face screws up in horrified realization, his mouth opens, but he's too disgusted by that mental mind-fuck to say anything.

"Just because I'm attracted to…" I break off, not sure if I should say _guys _or _Stan_, and then decide it doesn't matter. "It doesn't mean I'm attracted to you."

"Is that suppose to be an insult?" He growls.

"You know it." I smile slightly, and I can sense he is, too.

He picks awkwardly at a button on his coat, considering this. "So what happened… that was all… it was just…"

"Revenge." I fill in for him. "We were both feeling hurt and we took our vengeful feelings out that way. It was an act of insanity and that was all." I hug my knees to my chest. "In fact, if I could take it back, I would in a millisecond."

"You don't have any secret feelings for me?"

"God, no!" I shout, startling even myself. He looks at me with shocked, round eyes. "Do _you?"_ I fire back.

And then he bursts into a roar of laughter. I can hear the relief spilling out of it, the nervousness and awkwardness. And I laugh too; manically, because the situation is so completely fucked up.

When our laughter dies down, the dejection fogs around us again, melting our smiles.

"I want Stan to get better." He gazes off into the same spot as before. It's hard for him to say that, but the sincerity rings true.

"I know you do, Cartman." I pat his shoulder. "I know you do."

---

It's the shiny silver Mustang parked in the driveway that makes me stop in my tracks when I get back to Stan's house. It's nearly dark, but the moonlight is glinting gloriously off its sleek body. I can literally feel my eyes light up when I notice it doesn't have any plates; just the colorful piece of cardboard proclaiming the name of a popular car dealership. Randy and Sharon are standing beside it, talking quietly. Stan is sitting on the porch, staring at a ladybug crawling across his fingers.

"Kick ass," I breathe out loud. "Is this yours, Mr. Marsh?"

"It's mine."

My head whips around to look at Stan, but he continues to play with the bug.

"_Yours_!?" I yelp, rushing to peer inside the tinted window. "No goddamn, fuckin' way, dude!"

"Kyle!" Sharon scolds, but Randy laughs at my admiration.

"Isn't she something?" He asks, tipping his beer at it. "It's not new, but it's only a couple years old and it's in perfect condition."

"You really got this for Stan?!" I whoop, pulling the door open and jumping inside. I run my hands over the steering wheel.

"A boys gotta have a car when he turns sixteen." He answers.

I flick on the radio and the buttons glow an electric blue. "Fuckin' sweet, dude!"

Sharon gives an aggravated grunt and Randy laughs again. "He's also got his license. Tell him Stan."

"What?" I pull my attention away to look at Stan. "But we haven't even taken drivers ed. Yet."

"He's a natural." Randy beams. "Took him down to the DMV and he aced it like a pro."

Well, yeah, because he's all mechanical and robot-like now. He just doesn't have the life in him to be nervous and screw up. "Have you drove it yet, Stan?"

"He'll… drive it when he's ready." Randy answers.

I feel my mouth pull into a frown. "Don't you like your car, Stan?"

"Lets go in the house for now, boys. Stanley can take you for a ride later." Sharon herds us all into the house, and then pulls Randy into the kitchen.

I plop beside Stan on the couch and watch him watch TV for a few seconds, wondering how anyone can really be so disinterested in their first car. Especially one that bad ass. I thought maybe something really exciting would snap him out of it. Something like this, I thought, would remind him that life goes on and he should, too. Apparently I was wrong. Again.

The voices in the kitchen raise an octave, drawing my attention to the hushed whispers that seem to be getting more hostile.

"…thought it'd help him, Sharon. I'm only thinking of the boy." Randy hisses.

"He doesn't care about anything anymore, Randy. He needs help, not a new Mustang." Sharon snaps back.

"He doesn't need a shrink, that'll just screw him up more than he already is."

Stan's clenching his teeth together as they continue on and on, back and forth, like some kind of battle on a daytime TV court show. I can feel the tension building stronger every second; in the kitchen, in Stan. His whole body starts trembling until he looks mad enough to murder.

I touch his forearm gently, ready to appease him when Randy finally shouts, "Our son is not suicidal!"

"WELL, MAYBE HE IS!" Sharon thunders.

Stan flies off the couch and grabs the new set of car keys off the table, then throws the door open and storms out into the night. I scramble after him, slipping on the grass made wet from the new snow floating softly to the ground.

"Stan!" I shout after him.

I push myself to my feet and make it into the passenger seat just before he's about to stomp on the gas pedal.

"Get out of the car." He stares out the windshield, _glares_, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white.

I blink stupidly at him. "No."

His fingers squeeze deeper, nails digging into the gray material. The veins are bulging out the back of his hands.

"_Please,_" He grinds his teeth. "Get out of the _fucking _car."

I try not to let his words get to me. But it _stings. _He's never told me to leave before.

"What the hell did I do to _you_?" I'm trying to sound tough, mad. But instead it comes out like a sob; pitiful, _stupid._ My heart hurts.

I stare hard at him; feeling betrayed, feeling angry, feeling torn. His jaw is clenched so tight I'm afraid his teeth will crumble. More than anything, I want to take it all away. The pain, the bitterness. I'm losing him to it.

"I'm going with you." I decide quietly.

His eyes narrow further, bangs touching his eyelashes. He still wont look at me. "Kyle-"

"I _said _I'm going with you!" My shout echo's off the windows, whipping around us in the small bubble of the car.

Stan's lips hardened into a thin line as he shifts violently into reverse and peels out of the driveway. We fly down the street at incredible speeds, in silence. I hold on to the door handle, wincing as we round a corner.

"Stan, please slow down." I beg. He ignores me. "_Please."_

My nose is frozen and I'm shivering. It feels like the inside of an icebox in here, but I'm too upset to worry about the heater.

"Stan," I whimper.

"Shut up, Kyle!" He barks.

The words felt like a slap across the face as my heart disintegrated into a pile of ash. This wasn't my Stan. I knew that now. I wasn't losing him to the emptiness; I had already lost.

The car squeals as we spin around another corner, slide across the icy street and come to a stop in front of a tall, green house.

_Wendy's house._

My blood comes alive with adrenalin, pumping like an electric current, heating up until it starts to boil. It mixes with the venomous sting of his words, making a deadly potion within my body. I can almost feel it seeping out of my pores, the calm before the storm, and then I erupt.

"Are you _fucking _kidding me?!" I explode. "What the hell is wrong with you?! You've got to be one stupid ass piece of shit to still be doing this to yourself! What are you gonna do, asshole?! Mope around outside her goddamn house for the rest of your pathetic, miserable, fucking life?! You are one self-centered, son of a bitch! You have people who love you right in front of your goddamn face, but we're not good enough for you, are we, you fucking dick!"

I grab his shirt and shake him violently before slamming him into the driver side door and letting go.

"This is real! I'm real! Can't you fucking see me!? I _know _you can, dickface! You just don't give a shit because you don't care about anything else in the goddamn world but Wendy! Well let me tell you something about your fucking princess, Stan, because you're too damn retarded to figure it out on your own: She's a girl, _not _a goddess! And you know what else? SHE DOESN'T LOVE YOU, AND SHE NEVER FUCKING WILL!!! There! There, I said it! And it's the goddamn truth because she fucking told me so herself! Does it hurt? OH FUCKING WELL! You're hurting _everyone else _and you don't care, so why should I?! This needs to stop and it needs to stop _right now _or you're going to lose _everyone_, including me! If you don't give a crap, than I'm fucking sorry I failed you! But you need to stop being a pussy and get the hell over it already!"

My breath feels like fire in my lungs as the oxygen come out in jagged puffs, hissing through my bared teeth. Stan is still clutching the steering wheel, shaking and beat red with anger. He throws the door open and flies out into the snow.

"What are you doing!?" I rave.

He's on my side of the car in a flash and yanks the door open, grabs two fistfuls of my shirt, and hauls me out of the car. The snow powdered grass swirls up to meet my face as I topple to the ground.

He's back in his car so fast that the only thing I see when I lift my head is two red taillights disappearing down the street.

For the second time today, an explosion of tears overtakes me.

---

**TO BE CONTINUED…**

**----**

**A/N: **Hold it! Okay… I know… I KNOW Stan is a total _dick _in this chapter. Everything that happens though, it's for a good reason. Stan is my very favorite, and for that reason alone, you need to trust me. Kay? Trust me.

---

_**-BratChild3**_


	13. If I Could

**Authors Note: **I don't _want _Kyle to suck Cartman's balls, goddammit.

Anyway… XD Thanks so much for the reviews! I didn't have the chance to reply individually again. I hope that's alright, I was working hardcore to get this chapter done. All I can say once again is trust me. Heh… I hope very much that you guys wont stop reading in the middle of the chapter. So here's all I ask: at least read this chapter all the way through… and THEN decide if you're done with it. Kay? Heh…

---

**Chapter 13- If I could**

So maybe I shouldn't have screamed at him. Maybe I just made everything a whole lot worse. Maybe I've officially gone insane and it's about time to lock me up in the mental ward, in a straight jacket, like they did when I was eight because I saw cheerful pieces of singing Christmas poo.

After collecting my emotions, I push myself up to my knees and brush the snow and tears from my face. What just happened here? Stan didn't want me to go with him. He told me to shut up, I verbally exploded all over him like a piñata bursting at the submission of Cartman with a baseball bat, and then he literally threw me out into the snow. From his new Mustang. Which he can now legally drive.

Nothing about this night is normal.

If it was, I wouldn't have hurt him so badly. I know my words must have cut him deep; even deeper than his snappy command had cut me. That was a stupid thing for me to do; yelling that stuff at someone who may be harboring suicidal thoughts. Someone who's my best friend. Or at least, someone who used to be my best friend. Maybe I fucked myself out of that, too.

But, strangely, I'm not sorry I did it. Part of me thinks he needed it; _knows _that he did. Someone was bound to set him straight sooner or later. Better to hear it from me than think I'd been less than honest with him. Better to snap the fuck out of it than live in a mind fog of wishes forever.

Only I'm not so sure he _will _snap out of it. In fact, there's an impending sense of doom telling me I may have taken a bad situation and given him plenty of ammo to make it worse. What if he really lost it? What if he did something _really _stupid? There was still only one thing I knew was true, beyond a shadow of a doubt; and that was that I absolutely, positively could not live without Stan.

"Kyle? Is that you?"

I tip my head back, feeling snowflakes brush against my cheeks, and spot the silhouette of Wendy standing in the glow of her open front door.

"My God, Kyle! Are you trying to turn yourself into a Popsicle?!" She bustles to my side and grabs my arm to help me up. I accept the gesture, but use most of my own strength to lift myself anyway. "What are you doing out here?"

I blink away from her and down the road where Stan had disappeared, terrified, because at first I really did think he'd come back. But he's gone. Where the fuck did he go?

"Kyle, are you okay?"

I look back into her eyes, deep and soulful and blue, almost as amazing as Stan's used to be. The snow is clinging to her hair and eyelashes, making her look even more delicate somehow; more beautiful than normal.

My nose wrinkles in distaste, because I hate her. I hate her because Stan loves her so much, and for no other reason. How fucked up is that? I would never wish to be Wendy, but I wish with everything I am that I possessed whatever she had that charmed him so much.

Her hand is still pressed warmly against my arm, I realize, and move it as causally as possible away from her touch. I don't want to hurt her feelings, but we can't have any of that going on.

"I was just… taking a walk." I tell her.

Her eyes register confusion. "In the dark? On the ground? In the snow?" She separates each segment with emphasis and an equal amount of skepticism.

"Yes." I conjure up a fake smile, then sigh and look down at my shoes. "I don't want to talk about it."

She doesn't press me, and I'm incredibly thankful for that.

"Come inside out of the snow. We have a fire going." She folds her arms across her chest to ward off the chill and trudges back up the driveway.

With no ride home and freezing my nuts off, following her really is the smartest solution right now. I look down the road one more time, just in case, then trace her path through the snow.

Inside the house, she leads me past the staircase and into a small family room with no TV and a fireplace crackling in one corner. Her parents are lounging in recliner chairs, both reading separate books of the same novel.

"Kyle needs to warm up." Wendy announces the moment we walk in.

They both look up at us; her mom giving me a warm smile, and her dad eyeing me carefully. I stand awkwardly by the entryway.

"Come on." Wendy grabs my hand and leads me toward the fire.

"You're that boys' friend." Her dad suddenly recognizes me.

"His name is _Stan_, Dad." Wendy corrects, for what I imagine must be the billionth time, if her irritated tone is any indication.

"That's Sheila's son," The mother tells her husband, then directs her attention to me. "I'm with your mom on the PTA. Brilliant woman. She talks about you and little Ike all the time."

_Great_, I think miserably, and wonder what kind of humiliating stories she knows about me.

"Um, Mom, Dad?" Wendy cuts in, officially saving me for the second time tonight. "Can we have a little privacy, please?"

"Privacy?" Her dad grunts, skimming the pages of his book. "What do you need privacy for?"

Wendy's eyebrows furrow. "We're not going to have a conversation with you and mom as an audience, _Dad_. Jesus."

"I don't see why not." He reasons.

"Alright, fine." She concedes, grabbing my hand and tugging me back toward the main living room. "Then I guess we'll just be going up to my room and-"

"Hold on just a minute, little lady." Her dad scrambles to his feet, letting the book in his lap thump onto the cream colored carpet.

Wendy drops my hand and turns to face him, crossing her arms. "We had an agreement. I'm allowed to have boys over as long as we stay downstairs, and you wouldn't watch over me like a hawk."

"I said you could have some privacy with that one boy that this kid plays with all the time." He waves his hand at me.

"_Stan_." She seethes, drawing out the name venomously.

"Right." He grunts. "_Stan_. I didn't say you could be alone with every Tom, Dick, and Harry."

"This isn't Tom, Dick, _or _Harry, Dad. This is Kyle. And what, you think I'm gonna go be a whore with every guy from school that comes over?" Wendy swipes her hand at me in a questioning gesture. "Maybe Kyle's _gay,_ Dad! Did you ever think of that?"

I was staying out of it, but her words make be reel back. "…Wait, what?"

Wendy looks to her other parental figure for help. "Mom?"

Mrs. Testaburger laughs to herself as she puts her book aside and uncurls herself from the chair. "Come on, dear, it's time for your show to come on anyway." She pats her husbands shoulder on the way past. "She's old enough to have friends over without being babysat."

He chokes for an argument and comes up empty-handed. "Your mom and I will be in the next room," He finally concludes. "No funny business."

I watch him disappear into the next room, my eyebrow raised. If only he knew his daughters' virtue was as safe with me as if she were with a girlfriend. Maybe even safer than that. His suspicion is almost funny; but I feel brittle, like I'll splinter into shards if I laugh.

"Don't let him make you feel bad," Wendy says, giving up her defiant stance only after she's sure he fully evacuated. "He treated Stan the exact same way. It was really embarrassing for the both of us."

Selfishly, I'm glad her father is an overbearing ass. I know now it wasn't an exaggeration when Stan had complained they never got to spend any time alone together, which means they never spent a lot of time touching one another.

"It's okay," I assure her, and I'm surprised by how broken it sounds; how haunted, just like Stan. "I'd probably be ferociously protective over someone I loved that much, too."

A warm smile crawls up her face. _Shit. _Whatever I just said must have been the _right _answer in accordance with the point system graph of the Girls guide book to what every guy should say. I don't know if such book actually exists, but I do know most girls keep a mental score board of points for the guys they like, and I'm scared I just accidentally won a bonus round.

"Come sit over here," She indicates the hearth. " I'll be right back. Get warm."

I comply to her wishes as she walks out, shuttering when the heat engulfs my skin. In the quiet of her absence, the room in filled with a loud, obnoxious clicking sound, and I realize it's my teeth chattering from the cold as I start to defrost. I shiver more violently and scoot closer, holding my hands out to the flames and trying for once not to think about anything besides the heat warming me and the smell of the gingerbread scented candles burning on the mantel. But it only reminds me of the cookie that had started my friendship with Stan back in preschool; the one he was so willing to give me and then completely abandoned and destroyed when he was told he couldn't share with me.

… And it makes me wonder; am I still that important to him? I think I know the answer to that particular question, and the crushing pain in my chest is all I need to believe that ignorance truly is bliss. I stare into the burning logs, letting its power evaporate the forming tears before they can fall.

"Here you go." Wendy's holding a mug full of hot chocolate in my face. I hadn't even noticed her return and sit beside me.

I take the mug instinctively, but give her an apologetic look as she takes a sip of her own. "Um…"

"Don't worry," She laughs. "I haven't forgotten. Everything in this house is sugar free, remember?"

"Oh, that's right. Your mom."

"Right." She agrees. "That should warm you up pretty quick, but you can put this on when the fire starts getting too hot on your skin." She produces a light blue hoodie that she must have brought back in with her. "It's-"

"Stan's." I finish with her, recognizing it immediately.

Her eyes snap up to mine. "…yeah." She nods. "He left it here when… I haven't… haven't had the chance to give it back yet."

I set my drink aside and pull it on, feeling instantly warmer inside as his scent envelopes me. Wendy's staring contemplatively into her drink.

"…Do you miss him at all?" I find myself asking, then wonder where it came from. I hadn't even been consciously thinking it.

"Yeah," She admits right away. "I do. He was an amazing boyfriend."

The words tear me between envy and curiosity. But in the end, it's the curiosity that wins me over. I skim my index finger over the ledge of the mug, trying to seem as indifferent as possible. "What… makes you say that?"

She glances up, guilt darkening her face. "Well…" She studies me a moment, pondering whether or not it was a good idea to tell me. I try not to look intimidating or too curious, and somehow win her over. She sighs and lets her shoulders sag.

"All the little things, you know? Like… how he'd always give me that _smile _when he took my hand. Or how he'd give me his jacket if I was cold, or hold open doors for me. Very old-fashioned. Very… affectionate, and I didn't even have to ask him to be. When you're with him, he makes you feel special. He makes sure you know that you mean something to him." She looks up at me; gives an embarrassed laugh. "You don't know what I mean."

"Yeah, I… do." I admit softly.

Not about the old-fashioned, romantic, boyfriend side; but the affectionate, openly caring side, I knew exactly what she meant. And that _smile_… I could see it so clearly, even now, like its been painted on the back of my eyelids, and I think that maybe it's what I miss the most. I wonder if maybe it's what she misses the most, or if maybe it's simply the romance. After all, she doesn't love him; she never did. Not that way.

"… So that's why you slept with him," My stare is fixated on the fire again, unblinking. "even though you didn't love him. You were romanced."

"What?" She looks up and I meet her gaze. Shadows dance across her face.

"It makes a lot of sense. It'd be difficult not to be seduced by someone with so much… allure." I give her a smile and quiet laugh. "I mean, my first time was with someone who didn't even have that, it was just-"

"I never slept with Stan."

My interrupted words get caught in my throat, and we blink at each other, both equally perplexed. "Huh?"

"Where would you get an idea like that?" She questions.

I make a strangled, exasperated noise. "From Stan!"

"He told you we… had sex?"

"Yes!" I don't know why I'm shouting. Maybe because I'm shocked. Maybe because if they didn't have sex, it means Stan lied to me; something I never thought he'd do. Something that for some reason is worse to me than if they actually did have sex in the first place. After all, what kind of hypocrite was I? _I'd _had sex, too, and it wasn't even with someone I was romantically involved with. Hell, it wasn't even someone I moderately _liked. _I had no right to be upset about that. Even though I still was, I could at least understand; I didn't blame him. But if he was lying to me, how could I believe in anything he says again? Anything he _has _said before?

I look down, eyebrows drawn together, my face screwed up in utter disbelief. I try to swallow this possibility, try to digest it; but it just won't go down. Maybe Wendy's the liar. I know Stan better than that. He wouldn't lie, couldn't; his conscience is like mine and simply won't allow that.

"If you've never done anything, why would he tell me that?" I challenge, daring her to call him a liar again.

"I never said we didn't do anything," She answers, shaking hair out of her face. "I said I never slept with him. What we did could be considered 'heavy petting', but that's all. I wouldn't have let it go any further than that, but I didn't have a choice because he's the one who pulled the plug before it went too far."

My head is reeling, frantically searching for a clearing in the confusion, but the equation just doesn't seem to fit a formula. Wendy can read it on my face.

"Maybe that's what he meant. To some people, any kind of sex is sex, whether or not it's just touching." She educates me.

Again, I wrack my brain, trying to remember precisely what had been said. But that night was such a blur for me.

"He said…" I start, pausing only to recall it better. "I was worried because… he… you were staying the night with him. I thought I could talk him out of… that. And then he told me it was too late. So I… I punched him."

She's staring at me like I'm crazy, and I know she wants to ask me why in the hell I'd do something like that, but again she holds her tongue. She's too polite to be nosey.

"Stan doesn't lie, Kyle." She tells me this as if I wasn't aware. "Sometimes he's so honest it's kind of harsh. It sounds to me like you simply misinterpreted what he was telling you. Actually, it sounds like you never even gave him the chance to finish."

I'm not really sure how to reply to that, so I don't. This is something I know I'm going to ask him about later; if he ever talks to me again, that is.

The sound of the fire pops and crackles beside us, and the warmth feels good. My teeth aren't chattering anymore.

"Kyle?" She asks after a long stretch of silence.

I look up and notice she's closer; too close, probably, for what a normal platonic pair of friends should be. I instinctively lean back. "What?"

"Do you think Stan could ever forgive me?" She surprises me with her question.

"I don't think he was ever mad at you in the first place." I'm disturbed by the look in her eyes. I wish she wasn't attracted to me. I wish she'd just stop.

"Well," She continues, scooting closer still. This time, I actually notice her do it and know that it's intentional. "Do you think me and him could ever be friends?"

This is a question that makes me think; because I honestly can't answer. I feel like I don't know him anymore, and our reactions to one another tonight make me think that maybe I don't even know myself.

"I don't know, Wendy." I shake my head. "The Stan I used to know… I'd say… I'd say yes. If he could get over his romantic feelings, there isn't any reason why he wouldn't want to stay a part of your life."

"But _you'll _never forgive me," She looks down sadly. "for hurting Stan the way I have. Will you?"

I sigh deeply, troubled by this, because I know that any answer I give has the potential of sounding like an invitation. I have to choose my words carefully and that's something I never do. "You did what you had to do, Wendy. It kills me to see him that way but… I don't know. I think it'd kill me more to see him with someone who wasn't in it with their whole heart. He deserves better and you know that. You did the only thing you could, so there really isn't anything to forgive."

She's smiling at me again; a closed mouth sort of smile that's soft and affectionate and tells me I've just dug myself into a deeper hole. The problem is that I'm not entirely sure how to climb out of it without kicking her in the face as I go.

"Thanks," she whispers, then finishes off the rest of her drink and sets the cup aside before making a simple observation. "I make you nervous. Why?"

"Why?"

"Yes." She repeats. "Why?"

_Because you're looking at me like you're about to pounce and I have absolutely no idea what you might be capable of_, I think. _Because you might jump on top of me any second if I say one more thing that makes you smile. Because girls are dangerous, and I'm probably the only guy my age who doesn't want to get dangerous with a girl._

But I say none of this, because I am a complete pussy.

"I… _really _like you, Kyle." She takes my hand, and I let her. I'm not sure why. "But I'm realistic; you're Stan's best friend."

I glance at her fingers against my skin and then shoot a fearful glance in the direction her father had disappeared earlier.

"He's asleep by now." Her eyes are serious. "I promise."

"Wendy-"

"Be honest with me," She has my hand turned upward, cradled in hers while her fingertips caress my palm. "and pretend for a moment that Stan doesn't exist."

Okay. I would shoot myself. Thee end.

"Or better yet," she counteracts, shifting her position closer. Her knee bumps mine and rests there. "just pretend that me and him were never involved romantically. Pretend he never liked me at all."

_Only in my dreams…_

"…Okay." I swallow.

"Do you think _you _would?"

"Would _what_?"

Her fingers come to a stop after dancing up my wrist, and she encases my hand with both of hers. "Would you like me?"

Again I find myself contemplating her question; truly _wondering_, trying to decide what the answer closest to the truth is.

Wendy is a lot like Stan in the sense that most of the time she's easy going, honest, and cares about people and animals. She makes me feel comfortable and she's easy to talk to. She's also incredibly smart and shares some advanced placement classes with me, and she loves to laugh. Aside from all that, she's one out of only a handful of girls I found attractive enough to ogle, though I hadn't done so since Junior high; partly out of respect for Stan, but mostly because I was too busy ogling him to notice his girl anyway.

For the first time in my life, I'm looking at Wendy Testaburger and seeing her for who she really is. And I realize she isn't just the person Stan cares about more than me. She's Wendy; that's all. A completely different unity from Stan altogether.

A small puff of a laugh escapes me, and I smile. "If it wasn't for Stan," I answer gently. "I think I could like you as much as you like me."

_I could; If the universe were flipped upside down and I wasn't madly in love with my best friend. If it wasn't for Stan. If I weren't me. _

But I don't tell her any of that, either. She doesn't need to know… that I don't long for that alternate universe. I _could _want her, but I don't; and I don't wish I did, either.

She's smiling at me again, shyly this time; her eyes dancing behind a fringe of dark lashes. "Then… could we maybe try something?"

I'm leaning back again, only this time she's leaning forward, inches from my face. I'm not breathing. "Depends on what it is."

She lets go of my hand in exchange for touching my cheek. Her hand is softer than Stan's, and way more dainty. It also smells like rose petals. "I want to know what it'd be like if you kissed me."

I'm too stiff to move. Kind of like when you're so terrified everything freezes, even your voice, so you can't scream for help. "…Kiss… you?"

She nods, moving herself up onto her knees. "I've thought about it… so many times I lost count after thirty."

"Wend-"

"And, in the end, every time I kissed Stan I couldn't… it was you I was kissing. In my head…"

"Wen-"

Her fingers press against my lips. "I know nothing will come of it. I _know_, Kyle. I'm not asking for more. I just want to know what it would be like… what it would _really _be like… if I didn't have to pretend. If it was really you. Just once. That's all."

She's crawling toward me, coming closer, scooting across the wide, brick hearth, one knee on each side of my left thigh until she's so close her leg is nearly pressed against my crotch. My heart is hammering against my ribs, but I still can't move. Her hands slide up each side of my collarbone and grip the cerulean material. Her eyes close; so do mine.

Part of me wants to kiss her. Not because I feel any sort of magnetism, but to prove a point to myself; that I could like kissing a girl. Any girl. If I could move on, if I could want someone besides Stan, even if it's not as much, maybe it would be easier. I will never have this with Stan, no matter how badly I want it. So maybe this would change my mind.

But then I almost laugh, and I also almost cry at the same time; Because I already know I won't like it, that it won't change my mind, that as long as I live and breathe, I will never want anyone but Stan.

"Wendy," I whisper against her lips, which are almost touching mine. _Almost_, but not quite. My hands are on her shoulders, but only to restrain her, only to keep her away from me. And I don't want to kiss her; not even a little part of me, not even to see what it would be like.

She pulls back slightly, enough to look me in the eye. She already looks heartbroken, so I give her a smile; the gentlest one I have, because I do like her. As a person. As my friend. As absolutely nothing more.

"I can't do this." I'm whispering still, and I don't even mean to. That's just how it comes out. "Not even once, not to Stan. I… love him way too much, Wendy. I couldn't hurt him that way. I wouldn't ever betray him."

There's a feeling of _intense _between us that lasts a few moments longer, lingering as we stare at one another. Seconds tick by and neither one of us moves, until finally she releases me with a sigh and sits back on her heels. "I understand."

I frown. "I'm sorry, Wendy."

"No," she shakes her head, looks at me with an ironic sort of laugh. "I really do understand, Kyle. And it's okay. I'm not mad."

She lets out another quivery breath and shoots me an amused smile. I feel bad that being close to me had such an effect on her when it did nothing at all to me; but I can't help but smile back, and even share a laugh with her.

"Guess I got a little carried away. Sorry." She grins. Even though I know she won't try it again, at least not anytime soon, she doesn't look sorry at all. I laugh again at her devilishness.

We talk for a few more minutes, small talk mostly about school, until the awkwardness dissipates around us and it feels like none of it ever happened.

"So what's the real reason you're over here?" She asks when I follow her to the kitchen and deposit our mugs into the sink.

I look down, my smile fading as that familiar feeling of desperateness wavers over me. My mind conjures up an image of Stan; not my Stan, but this _thing _he's become, and I have to grit my teeth against the agony that washes through me.

"Kyle?" She touches my arm, and when I look up I see nothing but concern in her eyes. "What-"

"I'm okay," I promise, giving a careful smile. There's probably a lot I could tell her, but I'm afraid if I start talking it will all start tumbling out, and I don't want to get into all of that. Not now. Not tonight. I push the image back for now, tuck it away in that secret part of my mind reserved for him.

"Actually," I tell her. "Actually, there is something I wanted to tell you. But you've got to promise you'll take me seriously."

She looks hesitant. "…Okay."

I sigh and again fight a tiny laugh. "When you've had time to… get over things…" I look up from the floor again. "Don't laugh, okay?"

"I'm not laughing." She insists, now looking even more curious.

"I think you should give Cartman a chance." I rush this out on one breath.

Her expression is torn between horrification and bewilderment of the wildest kind. "_Eric _Cartman?"

"That's the one." I confirm.

She looks like a sugar-loving little kid who just took a huge bite of broccoli. "…_Why?_" She asks, shaking her head as if she can't even make sense of the words.

"Because he's the most selfish bastard in the whole universe." I answer truthfully. "…And he honestly cares about you."

The confusion is starting to take control of her, and soon the disgust is nearly gone. "I don't understand."

"Me either," I confess. "But, I… think that if someone like him can care about someone else that much, then the feelings must be incredibly special. And maybe… something good could come out of his feelings for you. Maybe if you gave him a chance and helped him let it grow, it could sort of… cure his hatred." She blinks at me, and I smile yet again. "There's a good guy under there somewhere, Wendy, and every good guy deserves a chance."

She blinks again. "Kyle, you're …crazy." But I think she's taking my words to heart.

We sneak through the living room, where her dad is snoring away just as she'd promised, and to the front door.

"Are you sure you don't want a ride? My mom will drive you." She asks on the porch.

"No. I kind of need the walk to clear my head. It's not that far." I reply. "Besides, I'm nice and warm now, thanks to you."

Another smile. I'm starting to get used to it now. "No problem."

"See you at school." I turn and get only a few steps away before she calls my name again. I pause and turn my head to gaze back at her.

"Who… _was _your first time with, anyway?" She asks, recalling our earlier conversation.

My face automatically scrunches up in distaste. "Trust me, that's something you'd really rather not know."

---

I get maybe two houses away from Wendy before I hear a car engine start up across the street. I expect it to drive past, but instead it catches up and then coasts beside me. I cast it a glance and come to a stop, recognizing the silver Mustang.

Stan leans over to push open the passenger door, then sits back upright and continues to stare out the windshield. The offer means I've been forgiven for going off on him, and if I get into the car, it means I've forgiven him, too.

I slide into the seat without a word and pull the door closed. He waits this time until he hears my seatbelt click, then taps the gas pedal gently. He drives the speed limit and takes the corners smoothly. The ride back is silent, but warm. He has the heater going now.

He cuts the engine in front of my house, but he doesn't move. I think that maybe he's still mad at me, but then I notice the way his hands are gripping the steering wheel, the way his arms are shaking, and I realize he seems to be struggling with some inner conflict.

"Stan?" I reach my hand out, but before I can even touch him, he throws himself into my arms.

I blink once, thrown off for a moment by this unexpected reaction. The warmth of his body starts seeping into mine, and with his face buried in the crook of my shoulder, I can feel hot tears sliding down my neck. I snake my arms around his back and pull him closer to me.

"Stan." I breathe as I feel my own tears spill slowly over my eyelids.

It feels good to hold him. It's as if this is exactly where I belong; in his arms, him in mine. Two halves of one complete whole. And even though I'll never have more, it's all I could ever ask for, it's all I need for the rest of my life. Just Stan, in whatever condition. My best friend. My everything. As long as I have that I know I'm gonna be okay.

I run out of tears long before he does. But it's good; he's got weeks worth of misery built up. So I don't let go, and I don't speak. I just hold him; for a long time, _forever_, until he finally pulls away.

His eyes are blank again, and he won't look at me.

"Come on." I take his hand and drag him inside with me, direct him to my room, and then call his parents to let them know he's alright and wont be coming home. Luckily my own family is easily avoidable; Ike in his room playing video games, and Mom and Dad in their room either already asleep or doing things I don't want to think about.

When I get up to my room, the door is slightly ajar. I push it open to reveal Stan waiting cross-legged among the sheets on one side of my bed. He's got the blanket turned down on my side and _The Catcher in the Rye _waiting on my pillow.

He wants me to read to him.

The image tugs at my heart, sending a warm wholeness through my body. Stan waiting up for me in bed… if I could have that every night… if I could look forward to that at the end of each day… if I could…

I'm frozen in the doorway, my throat swollen with the sensation to cry, blinking back the tears. I wish I could freeze this moment; hold on to it. I wish I could feel this way forever.

But I _can't_.

I roll my eyes upward and blink a few times, getting rid of the emotion, then close the door behind me. I take the toe of my shoe to the heal of the other to pull them off and kick them under my bed. Stan sinks back against the pillows as I get in my side of the bed and prop the book open on my knees. We don't exchange any words. I just begin to read.

I get through two chapters before I glance to see if he's fallen asleep- and my heart freezes.

He's propped up on his elbow, cheek resting in his palm, and all I see are two big, deep crystal blue eyes staring right at me.

Not through me, not past me, not beside me; _at _me. Directly into my eyes. And they aren't empty, and they aren't sad. They're just watching me; intently, admiringly… almost curiously.

My heart swells inside my chest, become almost too big for my ribcage to contain.

"H-hi," I croak out, because it's all I can manage to say.

"Hi." He speaks back. And it's quiet and gentle and the sweetest sound I could ever hope to hear.

He doesn't smile, but his expression is pleasant, and his lips curl the teensiest bit upward. Then he rubs his messy hair and lets his arm collapse beneath him and the side of his head hit the pillow.

He's looking at the book again, and so I pry my eyes away and read again until he's asleep.

But my brain doesn't absorb a single word of it.

-----------

_**To be continued…**_

_-BratChild3_


	14. Ivory Soap

**Authors Note: **Hooray! This took too long! But I'm done! Thanks for all the reviews on the last chapter, and thanks in advance for those of you who'll review this one. J

**P.S (or something): **KyleisGod posted a one-shot we wrote together. It's posted under M. If you're an S/K fan… hehe… read it.

---

**Chapter 14- Ivory Soap**

For the first time in weeks, I dream that night. Horrible, nightmarish dreams. The worst one comes after a string of confusion.

In it, I'm looking at Stan. I can't even say where we are, or maybe we aren't anywhere at all. It doesn't matter really; I'm trying too hard to figure out what the hell he's saying. He isn't coherent. Not that he's talking about something I don't understand; the words of his sentences seem to be words at random and don't fit together as a sentence to begin with. It's like someone minced what he was trying to say and jumbled the words all together.

Then he touches my cheek and I decide I don't give a shit what he's talking about as long as he doesn't take his hand away. _Ever_. He does, of course, but just as I open my mouth to protest this unfathomable action, he grabs my hips and heaves me against him. The movement is so quick I feel my breath rush out of my lungs. His expression is serious and confident; then his eyelids lower slightly and he smirks.

More gibberish; more words thrown together that make no sense. But this time they hold a tone of sensuality that makes my blood run thick with warmth. He moves his hand to my jawbone and pulls my face toward his, crushing our lips together. A grunt of surprise issues from my throat, but it's muffled against his mouth. And then he's kissing me.

…And I'm not enjoying it. This confuses me, and I feel my eyebrows furrow as his tongue invades my mouth. I'm not enjoying it because something doesn't _feel _right. Something about this kiss just isn't Stan. Something is just too… _delicate._

I moan in protest and push myself away. Where Stan had just been stands Wendy, her arms still coiled around my hips.

"Stan?" She asks. "What's wrong?"

This mystifies me further, because she's looking right at me. "What?" I question, and it comes out in Stan's voice.

Wendy smiles and pats my nose with her index finger. "Oh, Stan. I'm glad we worked everything out. I never want to be apart again."

She leans in for another kiss, and suddenly I'm shooting upright in bed, gasping for breath.

My room is quiet, and even though it's illuminated in pale moonlight, it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. I reach over, blindly trying to find Stan's hand among the sheets and come up with nothing. I blink my tired eyes and strain to see better.

The bed is empty. He isn't here.

"Stan?" It comes out fearfully, teetering on deliriousness.

"Over here, Ky."

His voice is soft and tranquil, coming at me from my window. I squint in that direction, then release the blanket I'm clutching beneath my chin and slip out of bed.

I stumble when my feet touch the floor. The world seems to tilt at sharp angles; up and back, left and right as I make my way clumsily over to the dark figure against the open curtain. I clutch both sides of my head, trying to steady it.

"Stan?" I ask again, and my voice sounds like I'm talking through a plastic jar.

His arms are folded over his chest, and I start to feel a bit panicked again, because he's staring sightlessly out the window, his face void.

"…I've been so stupid," He murmurs, once again in that careful, quiet voice.

The room falls in silence again, but I can't find it in myself to speak. So I don't. I watch him blink through the silvery light bathing him; wait until he speaks again.

"I never wanted to worry anyone. I was just so… broken. It felt like too big of an effort to try and act normal when I didn't feel normal at all. It'd be like pretending, and I stopped playing make-believe a long time ago."

The room isn't tilting anymore. Now it's starting to spin. And I'm freezing; freezing and sweating at the same time. But I'm too entranced by Stan's voice and, more importantly, his words, to let it consume me. I grip the window ledge to stay upright, fighting the growing seed of nausea forming in the pit of my stomach.

"But I had to deal with things," He goes on. "and I did the only thing I could do: I held it all in and battled it out in my own head, because I… didn't want to unload on you."

He finally blinks, just once, a sarcastic smile fixed on his face as he shakes his head, but it quickly fades into a grim line. "I was stupid. I didn't see what it was doing to everyone; what it was doing to _you._ Maybe part of me was too angry to care. But none of that mattered, not to you. You were there for me anyway. You held my hand through it all."

I feel his hand sneak into mine. I try to look down, but the movement of my eyeballs sends a new wave of dizziness over me. I look back up, trying to blink it away. He's still looking out into the darkened night.

"I didn't realize it then, but… I literally had the world, _my _world, in the palm of my hand. I'm done feeling sorry for myself. I'm done hurting everyone. I want to get better…" He squeeze my fingers. "For _you, _Kyle." He finally turns to me on those last words.

The zombie is gone, I know that now, looking into those eyes; those _goddamn_ eyes. They could only belong to one person in the whole world. The one person that'll hold my heart in the palm of his hand for as long as it continues to beat, and long after it's already stopped.

"You mean more to me than anyone ever could. Nothing, Kyle, _nothing _could cut me as deep as the pain I saw in your eyes tonight. And I will spend the rest of my life making these last few weeks up to you, if that's what it'll take to never see that pain again. I promise… I won't let you down."

Even through the throbbing in my head, the words are swirling through me and making my heart swell with something I can't quite identify. Something good, something real, something so powerful I can feel it vibrate the air between us. And I decide…

I'm definitely still dreaming.

A very faint smile is playing over his lips, adding to the adoration already there. He puts his palm to my cheek, and I watch his expression collapse.

"Kah-" He feels my other cheek quickly; the top of my arms. "My God, Kyle, you're freezing."

I stare at him through hazy eyes and see nothing but a slash of concern across his face. My teeth are chattering again; loudly, like at Wendy's house.

"Come here." He first crushes me against him, wraps his arms around my shoulders to try and warm me, then pulls away and drags me to the bed. In the next instant I'm under the blankets, cuddled against his chest.

I've spent countless nights in the same bed as Stan, but this… _this _is something I could really get used to. I nuzzle my face in his neck, not giving one shit about gayness or modesty or even sex. This closeness feels way too damn good to ruin by thinking with my dick.

…And it's so warm; so _right. _I feel so… fucking _loved._

"Get warm, Ky." His hands rub up and down, helping to warm me with friction. "Get warm."

His breath and his smell and his voice and his touch are hypnotizing me; rocking me in a comfort so deep I feel my consciousness fading to sleep, even as his leg slips between mine for extra warmth.

---

It's light when I wake up. A stale sort of light that tells me the sun isn't shining in my window anymore, like it does in the mornings. The clock reads a quarter to one, but I'm not completely sure how accurate it is. Sometimes I hit the wrong buttons when I'm slapping around for my very favorite called "snooze" and mess up the numbers.

I yawn at it with disinterest and then stretch my arms up, rolling from my side to my back and spread out star-shaped across the mattress. I let out a sigh, and then my face scrunches up. Even though I'm only covered from my waist down, it's way too damn hot.

I kick the blankets off and glare in the direction of a soft whirring, spotting the culprit. A small, square space heater is sitting on my desk, place strategically at an angle to blow at me from across the room. I moan lazily and roll out of bed to shut it off, irritated that I have to get up even though it's already early afternoon. It makes me wonder why I slept so late in the first place. I'm not really a morning person, but at the same time, I never sleep in past seven-thirty.

I also wonder where the hell Stan ran off to.

My bones feel weak and I've got a putrid taste in my mouth, like I'd spent the night puking and never washed it out. My face screws up for the second time, and I pull a clean, fresh set of clothes out of my dresser and closet and head to the bathroom.

I brush my teeth before anything; brush them twice, then take a swig of florescent green, spearmint flavored mouth wash and swish it around for sixty seconds straight. Only then do I empty my bladder, get in the shower and scrub away the groggy, lazy feel clouding my head. I stand under the warm spray when I'm done and let it massage my neck and scalp; let it wash all the tension from my shoulders and pelt against my hair, my bangs running long and straight over my eyes.

I'm trying to put the puzzle pieces of last night together, but there's so many that are so tiny and I'm not sure which were dreams and which, if any, were reality. The faucet squeaks when I turn it off, and a single drop of water splashes against the porcelain tub. I stand there a moment, my hand frozen on the knob, staring blankly at the tiled wall.

Something in my brain is telling me not to worry; to be _happy_, and I can feel some tiny corner of my heart quivering with excitement.

…He looked _at _me last night.

I feel a corner of my mouth twitch, trying to smile, but still quaking too deeply with anxiety to actually let it form.

I exit the shower smelling of various passion fruits whose scents were obviously bottled for the female species, because Mom doesn't like to stop and consider the fact that she lives with three males who might not want to smell like strawberry soap and pomegranate shampoo. I like taking showers at Stan's house better, because he uses ivory soap and smells clean and not like a bowl of Froot-Loops.

I towel off my body and then my hair, which fluffs annoyingly back to life.

…_Stan._

_Stan Marsh_…

I shudder as I slip into blue polka-dotted boxers and pull my long-sleeved shirt over my head. His name sounds foreign for some reason, like he's a celebrity I love to look at and don't know the first thing about. But that's crazy; I know Stan better than anyone. I'm closer to him than anyone. So why do I feel so far away? I slip one side of my pants on, then the other.

Maybe it's because I'm not sure how splintered our friendship's become, and I'm not even sure it can be completely mended. Maybe because, after everything, I'm afraid he might have become a totally different person now. One that may never be as close with me as we once were.

A ripple of fear shoots through my stomach, my fingers stalling on the button of my jeans, and dry heavy; only once. I clutch the sink as a cloud of dizziness wavers through my brain, making it feel sprinkley, like its fallen asleep.

"Dammit," I mutter, knowing I need to eat because of my blood sugar and hating the inconvenience of it. Maybe I don't fucking _want _to eat right now.

I zip up my pants and go back to my room for socks and shoes, planning on making a quick exit as soon as I stuff something in my face and before Mom tries to force inane chores on me.

Besides; I really, _really _need to see Stan.

"Fuck," I mutter, spotting The Mother start up the stairs just as begin descending them. I pull at the ears of my hat, wanting to hide but knowing if I run it'll only make me that much more obvious.

"Kyle! Good, you're awake." Her voice is overly pleased to see me.

_Oh, God… _I think miserably, sighing as I lean against the banister. _Goodbye weekend. _

She grabs my face when she reaches me at the top, feeling my cheeks, then my forehead. My mouth opens to protest, then I freeze; a flash of memory streaming across my mind, because I can recall Stan doing the very same thing last night.

Was _that _a dream?

I shudder, goose bumps cropping up along my skin as I remember the way he held me against his chest. In bed.

"Kyle?!"

"Huh, what?" I blink and focus back on Mom, who's still scary when she yells, even though I'm towering over half a foot taller than her now.

"I asked if you're feeling alright." She repeats, sounding slightly annoyed, but not mad in the least; thank God. I shrug.

"I'm fine." I tell her, not quite sure what she expects me to say to that. Maybe if I lie she won't make me do anything, but then she also might not let me out of the house. She's really good at either over-working or over-babying both me and Ike. I'll bet she's the one who cranked up the heat in my room to a blistering eight-hundred degrees. "I need to grab something to eat though."

"Yes, I figured as much, I was just on my way up here to wake you up. Stanley's downstairs, he made soup for you." She grabs my wrist and yanks me down a few steps, then gently presses my back to encourage me to descend the rest of the way. "Go on downstairs and get some. He spent all morning fussing over it." She leans toward me and sniffs. "Oh, that Pomegranate Passion shampoo is just heavenly."

I watch her disappear down the hall, one of my eyebrows quirked in puzzlement, then realize she just said Stan was here. I blink, my heart kicking up with hope, and break into a dead run down the stairs.

The TV is flashing with brightly colored cartoon reruns, but the living room is otherwise empty. I can hear Stan and Ike's voices wafting from the kitchen; their chatter dominate over the muted program.

"…You're missing something." Ike says, his tone matter-of-fact.

"Goddamnit, Ike," Stan snaps, though he only sounds half as irritated with him as I usually am by this point in the afternoon. "Would you stop saying that and just tell me what it is I'm missing, if I really _am _missing anything?"

"It's too late now, you ruined it."

"Do you always act like such a little shit?"

I bite my tongue to keep from laughing. "Little Shit" has been my official nickname for him for a few years now.

"…Only to Kyle." He answers. My eyes narrow at the confession, and Stan lets out a sigh that sounds like a dragon breathing fire. "But since you're practically glued to his hip, that gives me full rights to be a little shit to you, too."

"Then that means I have full Big-brother rights to boss you around, and I order you to stop being a little shit." Stan commands.

"No." They walk into the living room as Ike says this, him smiling triumphantly and Stan clutching a small food tray with a bowl of soup and short stack of saltine crackers on top. "Just because you _can _boss me around doesn't mean I'll actually listen." He glances at me. "Huh, Kyle?"

Stan's eyes snap up, locking on mine. "Kyle!" He exclaims. His excitement at seeing me nearly knocks the tray off balance, but his quick reflexes keep the bowl of soup from sliding off onto the floor. I smile.

There's emotion in his voice, on his face, in his movements. I can see life flickering wildly behind his eyes when he looks back up at me again, and then…

…he _smiles._

The world stops around us, even the breath in my own lungs;

and my heart, like it's been cast under a spell and frozen for a hundred years, starts beating for the first time in my life.

If I didn't already have romantic feelings for him, I know with everything I am that this is the very moment I would have fallen in love with him. Where the first time snuck up on me, built slowly and matured as we got older, I'm experiencing falling in love with him all over again; only this time its socked me square in the stomach, and this time… there's absolutely no mistaking what it is.

We're staring at each other; eyes penetrating one another's souls, warm smiles soft on our lips. Part of me is worried he can read the emotion in my eyes; that he'll figure out he means much more to me than I could ever mean to him. But I don't care, not right now. Everything we've gone through this past few weeks, every second of desperation, depression, and agony have all been worth it, just to get to this moment; just to see him smile again.

"So kiss or something." Ike pipes in, but it doesn't break the staring spell.

Stan breathes a short laugh, more air than sound; shoves the food tray at Ike, and hurries over to me. I think for a minute that maybe he _will _kiss me when he reaches out, but I'm folded in his arms and drawn against him instead.

A hug.

I blink, my arms going around him carefully.

"I'm sorry, Kyle." He mumbles. His voice is thick, and it tickles my spine. "It's all my fault you got sick. I shouldn't have left you out in the snow."

"I was sick?" I ask dumbly. Stan pulls away from me, looks at me like I'm insane.

"Yeah, dude! You were _really _sick all night. To the point that you were delirious. I was sure you'd started puking up your intestines after a while."

My hands are clutching his waist. I let go, and hate that I have to. "I don't… really remember…" I look upward, digging through my scattered memories of last night.

"Well, your mom and I do." He snorts. "It was pretty fucking gross." He smiles again, teasing, then touches my sleeve and his eyes deepen. "I really am, though. Sorry."

I think that everything I remember from last night probably wasn't a dream after all; that he really did tell me he was done feeling sorry for himself, and that maybe now things are really going to get better.

I wonder how long he held me before I started puking my guts out.

"Are you hungry?" He asks, pulling me toward the couch. "I made you soup. And it's not from a can."

"You don't know how to cook." I accuse. He flings me onto the couch next to Ike, who's completely absorbed in some brainiac hard-copy news report thing.

"He forgot something." He mutters, eyes never leaving the TV. Stan shoots him a look, which goes unnoticed.

"It's chicken and rice." He says, eyes softening when he looks back at me, and positions the tray over my lap.

I peer into the bowl, smiling to myself, pleased beyond comprehension that he went through all that trouble just for me. His reflection on the liquid distorts when I pull the spoon out and take a bite… and try not to choke.

It's _horrible; _a bowl of rice and chicken bits floating in a sea of hot tap water. And the sad thing is that it could actually be a lot worse, because at least the rice is soft. I try to pretend that I like it, so I won't hurt his feelings; but I'm making a face.

"You don't like it." He observes, sounding more disappointed than hurt.

"No," I rush. "It's fine… it's just…" He waits for me to finish. I bite my lip, twisting my spoon in the bowl. "Well, you kinda… _did _forget something."

"I did?" He looks at Ike, who grins back manically.

"Told you."

Curious, he scoops my hand in his, bringing the spoon up to his mouth to test it himself. His nose wrinkles as he swallows, like he's trying to take a dose of bitter cough syrup.

"Broth." He realizes, his face a grimace; mine amused. "God, Kyle, I'm sorry, I-"

"Stan," I laugh, beaming brightly up at him. He peers down at me; half amused, half embarrassed, completely unaware just how incredible he is. "It's perfect." I promise.

And I honestly mean it.

---

He's not better, but he's _trying _to be.

He decides that what he wants to do more than anything else in the world today is ice-skate; "_Like we used to…"_

We haven't skated in years because it started feeling kind of gay; but Starks pond is frozen solid by this time of year, and I think it could help him. He seems to need this; like he wants to go back to a happier time, before everything got so damn confusing; and if he could relive it then maybe everything wouldn't be so fucking painful anymore.

We give Ike a ride to Fillmore's house, pick up Kenny (who always comes equipped with Butters), and at Stan's insistence, swing by to grab Cartman.

I volunteer to retrieve him from his house, because I'm positive I'll have to do some quick negotiating to get him to come and not be a dick about it; but he surprises me by not only agreeing to go, but his face lighting up and running right past me the moment he opens the door and spots Stan in his new car.

I had originally given up my seat in front for Butters since he's prone to car-sickness, but fatass tosses him face first into the snow and takes over, chattering to Stan with such animation I can't even hope to argue. Kenny kicks the back of the passenger seat, squeaking a string of profanities.

Butters ends up sitting in back with us, his face buried in Kenny's shoulder so he won't get nauseated. I watch Stan's eyes in the review mirror, and Kenny stares at me the whole way there.

There's a few other people on the ice when we get there; two little girls around Ike's age and a separate couple in their early twenties, who seem to be doing more kissing than skating. I focus on lacing up my rented ice-skate and try not to feel jealous.

"Last one there's a turd sandwich!" Butters proclaims. I look up just in time to see him zip across the pond.

"Come on, Stan!" Cartman shouts, his cheeks and nose pink against his pale face from the cold.

I glance from him to Stan, who's hovering in the snow in front of me. He looks at Cartman, then me; wanting to go but not sure he should leave me behind. Cartman glares, annoyed; and part of me wants to remind him just where Stan's loyalty lies by asking Stan to wait for me. But then Kenny moves beside me, bumping my elbow, his eyes boring into my face.

"Go on, dude." I tell Stan. My breath ghosts visibly in front of me, and I smile; just to see him smile back. He does. I watch him chase after Cartman and nearly topple when the blades of his skates slice across the rink.

"You are… _fucking… _hopeless." Kenny singsongs the moment they're out of earshot; but the tone is grim, and his voice sounds like funeral bells.

My head whips around to look at him, bringing our faces just inches apart. He's not playing around like normal… his eyes are cold; _accusing_.

"What?" I ask, my voice a pitch higher than normal; strained in a _what the hell did I do? _way.

He stares back, hard, ice frosted over his expression, then looks down. "Nothing."

"What?" I ask again, demanding this time.

"Nothing," He repeats, and pulls a cigarette out from underneath his parka. I snatch it from his fingers and toss it toward a cluster of trees, where it lands lightly atop the snow. A squirrel perks up nearby, then charges toward it like a kamikaze, snatches it up and disappears up the trunk of an Evergreen. We can hear it chittering merrily above our heads.

Kenny's gazing up at it, frowning. "Goddamn you, Kyle. I'm not allowed to have one, but you'll pass it out to the wildlife? Smokey the Bear's gonna kick your inconsiderate ass."

"That wasn't suppose to happen." I reason. "I thought you quit."

"_Trying,_" He grunts, tugging at a tuft of overgrown hair. His eyes slice to mine, and he grins at me for the first time today. "… You know what? You're right. I don't need it, and honestly, I don't even want it that much. It's just an anxious habit." He goes back to his ice-skate. I study his expression.

"What are you anxious about?" I question. He shrugs.

"Nothing. So… He just woke up this morning and decided to smile and ice-skate?" He finishes one skate and looks back up at me. I shrug back, scratching my neck.

"Kinda. I mean… it's more involved than that."

"Naturally." Kenny agrees, urging me to go on. I can see in his eyes that he's concentrating deeply; trying to find something in mine and I'm not quite sure what.

"He drove to Wendy's house yesterday. I don't even know if he was going to talk to her. I think it was just to sit and mope. Anyway, we had a… _talk_," My eyes cut to his, and he raises an inquisitive eyebrow, but I continue. There's no reason to tell him I yelled and screamed. "and I guess it worked, because he was up in the middle of the night thinking it over and told me he was done feeling sorry for himself."

Kenny's quiet a moment, staring at me. His eyes narrow again. "A talk, huh? You're sure that's all?"

"Kenny, what the hell are you talking about?" I huff, tired of his suspicions. He sighs, the air blowing his bangs.

"I'm kind of worried," He admits. "Don't take this the wrong way, but… I kind of think that you've been taking advantage of Stan. Through this whole ordeal… it really looked like you were the one who needed him. I'm worried you took it too far and did something stu-"

"I didn't." I snap. He looks up at me, nods once.

"Okay." He seems relieved to hear this, then looks back down, grabbing a stick and proceeds to draw symbols in the snow. "I'm mostly worried about what's going to happen now that he's better."

"There's nothing to worry about." I tell him. "He's doing great. He-"

"No, I mean I'm worried about _you._" He spears the stick into the snow and turns to me again. "You've become dependant on him, Kyle. I've seen it. Now you aren't going to have an excuse to hold his hand and climb into bed with him every night. He's going to get over Wendy, and when he does, he'll eventually find someone else." I look down and feel his hand settle on my shoulder. "You're going to have to let him go, Kyle."

I go back to tying up my ice-skate, avoiding his gaze. I have no comment and I don't want to talk about this anymore. He tilts his head to see my face better.

"Kyle?"

"Let's skate. They're waiting for us." I scramble to my feet when I'm done and head for the ice. Kenny follows quickly after me, but he doesn't say anything more.

I glide slowly across the ice, my knees wobbling beneath me. Kenny goes a little faster, but he isn't much steadier than I am. All the years we haven't come has left us a bit rusty. Butters makes it look easy, because he comes here with his parents several times every year, so he's gotten in a lot more practice.

"What in the hell are they doing?" Kenny muses, chuckling as he comes to a stop beside me.

Stan and Cartman are in a row at the other end of the pond, hunched forward, glaring at each other through smiles. Butters is standing off to the side, watching them.

"They look like they're gonna-" I start, then see Butters karate-chop the air and shout, "Go!".

They shoot forward, Cartman swaying and Stan stumbling a bit before they each steady themselves and build up speed.

"Go Stan!" I shout, cupping my hands around my mouth like a megaphone. Kenny sticks his fingers in his mouth and lets out an ear-splitting whistle, though I don't think he's rooting for either one in particular.

They keep glancing at one another as they approach; keeping perfect stride without one or the other moving ahead or falling behind. Stan's directly in my path, and doesn't seem intent on swerving any time soon.

"Don't remember how to stop!" He calls out, sending Cartman into a fit of mocking laughter. Stan grabs my arm with both hands as he flies past, but he's going so fast it only whips me around in a circle. Stan loses his grip, and we're torn in opposite directions; him falling on his ass on the ice and me thrown off completely. I land on my back in a pile of snow.

My eyes open slowly, and I see nothing but tree tops against a cloudless blue sky. In the distance, Kenny joins Cartman, and their laughter blends in harmony.

…And then I hear Stan, his voice like harp music, laughing harder than he has in months. The smile from earlier comes back, tugging at my lips, and then I'm laughing, too; harder than _I _have in months, so much that I think my stomach might rip, and I think I've never felt happier.

But a pain starts in my chest; one that spreads outward, pouring over me like warm poison, consuming my soul like a plague. I choke, and the laughter dies in my throat, melting into sobs; and suddenly I'm crying miserably up at the heavens.

His laughter means he's healing; it means he's letting go, and I know in my heart that Kenny's right. Now that Stan let go of Wendy, I have to let go of him.

And I don't know how.

---

**To be continued…**

**---**

_-BratChild3 _


	15. Fairytales

**Authors Note: **So I had complete writers block for two weeks solid, not to mention absolutely no time for anything. KyleisGod helped me out a lot though, and I finally broke the block and got through it very quickly. Thanks all my reviewers! I didn't get as many last chapter, which may be part of my reason for the block, but I'm sure everyone's been busy with the holidays and everything. Hopefully my count will be up again this chapter? Let me know what you think. Happy (late) Hanukkah, and merry Christmas!

**2****nd**** Authors Note: **I did some revising at the end of this chappy. Not lots; basically just cleaned it up and made it a bit smoother. Most of you probably wont notice the difference. : P

---

**Chapter 15- Fairytales**

Fairytales are fucking bullshit.

Maybe you've already figured that one out for yourself; maybe you think I'm stupid that it's taken me this long to figure it out. I always knew they were _fiction_, I'd just never given them much thought before; I'm not a _girl_. But they're so… fucking _misleading_, and then people wonder why everyone is so fucked up and why everyone is always unsatisfied; eyeing what everyone else has and wanting it more than what they've already got.

When I was little, Mom used to read me bedtimes stories, and among the stories about sailboats and talking teddy-bears, she'd slip in a fairytale here or there; the kind meant for little girls who are born wanting to be some sort of pink and white princess-bride nightmare. I guess it's because she never had a daughter. I always thought they were pretty fucking stupid and wanted to get back to Peter Pan sword fighting somewhere in Neverland, but I'd listen to them anyway because I didn't want to make her feel bad. I never dreamed of meeting my "prince"; never wanted to fall in love in the first fucking place. But the fairytales have obviously warped some part of my brain, because I can't help but feel bitter about them, like I've been lied to my entire life. They make love sound like the best fucking thing that could ever happen to you; like when you're in love it makes everything better somehow and you can't feel pain anymore, but that's a fucking bucket of horse shit.

It hurts to love Stan. It hurts even more to stop. There's no way to describe how it feels; how my heart _bleeds _when he smiles at me, how my name on his lips is like needles and pins. He doesn't know how fucking painful it is for me, just to be near him, and he doesn't know how much worse that pain gets when we're apart.

This past two weeks have been a living nightmare. Which is completely fucked up, in a way, since Stan has steadily improved over that time. You'd think I'd be happy about that, and I am; nothing makes me happier than hearing him laugh. It's on the inside that hurts, in places I never knew existed before. I've fallen into this sort of depression, and I dread the ending of the day, when I slip inside my room and climb into bed with nothing there but my loneliness to curl up with. I've gotten too used of sharing my bed and now it feels too big; too empty. And then there's the mornings, which are almost as unbearable, when I have to face him in broad daylight and smile and pretend like my chest isn't caving in and that my heart is fine, when really it's doing somersaults because I'm with him and aching because I can't touch him. And the whole time I'm inwardly telling myself over and over that I don't love Stan and my heart is fine. It's like a mantra:

_I don't love Stan, my heart is fine; I don't love Stan, my heart is fine; I don't love Stan, my heart is fine… _

Then I go home, beat my fists against my mattress and scream into my pillow because nothing is fucking fine anymore and I don't know what the hell I'm suppose to do about it.

I'm hiding it all well enough, I suppose; but I know Kenny isn't buying anything by the way he watches me. He won't say it to my face, but he thinks I'm an asshole, and he's probably right. I feel so selfish for feeling so miserable.

Fuck, I hate it.

Tonight though, I'm feeling particularly okay. It could be the only reason is because it's Stan's birthday, and no matter how torn up I am about everything, it always feels better when I'm close to him. It's that bond between us, so indescribable, that makes me feel so complete; so _alive_. I thought we'd lost it for a while there, but I've never been more wrong. It withstood everything without a scratch and may in fact have only gotten stronger. The connection between us blows my fucking mind.

So that's what I'm focusing on as I watch my shoes crunch into the snow, Wendy keeping perfect stride beside me. We're walking to Raisin's together, where Kenny set up the party Stan didn't want in the first place. Somehow, though, Kenny always gets his way; he's got some sort of charm over everyone and nobody can quite put their finger on what it is. It's just too damn hard to say no to him when he really wants something.

… But on the inside, I really wish the four of us could have done something together, alone, like Stan had originally wanted.

I scratch the side of my nose with my knuckle and look at Wendy, trying to stop worrying about Stan so much; but it only makes me more concerned.

I must be out of my mentally impaired mind, but she's my present to him. Not my official present; that I'll have to give him later, when there isn't so much commotion. No… Wendy's my placebo gift, and I pray to Moses it doesn't backfire. I'm not trying to get them back together or anything completely retarded like that; I just want them to make up, because… I think it's the missing piece to his happiness as a whole, no matter how fricken jealous it makes me.

Oh, and it does.

I sigh, staring hard into the snow. The tiny crystals look like piles of white glitter in the lamplight.

"Do you think it's okay that I'm coming?" Wendy breaks into my head. I blink out of my thoughts and look over at her. She's fingering the silver wrapped box in her arms.

"Wendy," I laugh, but it's hollow. She must have asked me this five times by now. "You were invited, weren't you?"

There's a stretch of silence as she purses her lips together, unconvinced. I raise an eyebrow and she looks away. "…God, you're right." She takes in a deep, shaky breath.

"Jesus, Wendy," I tease. "if you were a smoker, I think Colorado would be in the midst of a cigarette drought."

"Aren't you concerned?" She rushes, breath blowing visibly around her face. "I mean, so what if I was invited? _Stan _didn't invite me. He doesn't even know I'm coming."

"So?" I spit, a little too harsh.

"_So_," She mocks. "What if it upsets him?"

I look ahead, squinting through the streetlights and shrug. "It's his party and he can cry if he wants to." I state.

Wendy scoffs beside me. "Funny, Kyle, that's really mature." She growls. "This is a little more serious than that. He got really depressed. You of all people-"

"I know." I come to a stop, tugging her arm to make her face me. "I know."

We wait for a car to pass, watching each others eyes until the engine quiets to a dull hum in the distance. I've never seen so much fretfulness clouding her face before, and that only makes me more uneasy.

"You don't think I'm worried?" I ask, still holding her elbow. "I'm scared as fuck that seeing you will break something in him again, and God knows I'd take a dagger to the heart to stop that from happening." I let out a breath, my voice softening. I've got to remember this isn't her fault. "But Wendy, you can't… you can't _hide _forever because it might upset him. And even if you tried, we live in a small town, you go to the same _school_; eventually he's going to run into you. What's going to happen then?" I propose.

She bites her lip and looks down, unsure of an answer. I pull her chin back up. Her eyes look haunted.

"I'm not really sure, but I think the only way he can ever get better is if there's peace between you. He needs you to be a part of his life. If you avoid him, he'll think whatever he did was so horrible you can't even forgive him enough to be his friend. He has to know it wasn't anything he did, and only you can tell him that." I swallow thickly and release her arm. "He loves you, Wendy. The worst thing you could do is hide from him."

Her arms are around my neck before I can blink, squeezing me against her. I hug her back, because… I need the comfort right now, too; and I have to admit, it feels pretty good.

"Thank you, Kyle." She whispers, turning her face into the crook of my neck. Her hair tickles under my chin. I hold her, rubbing her back, hoping I'm right about this. I have no idea what I'm going to do if Stan goes apeshit. If that happens I'm going to have to somehow make it up to both him _and _Wendy.

"We should probably get going." I say after a minute, patting her back in a "there, there" sort of way. She breathes deep against my throat, tightening her arms around me.

"Not yet." Her lips brush against my skin as she speaks. I stiffen and my spine freezes.

"Wuh… Wendy?" I sputter.

She sighs; squeezes tighter, then lets go abruptly, turning before I can see her eyes. She's wiping them with the wrists of her purple mittens. "Sorry," She mutters, then louder, "I'm alright now. Let's go."

She starts off without me, not looking back. I, a bit concerned, blink after her before catching up. I shove my hands inside my pockets, because they still feel naked without Stan's to hold, and walk beside her in silence. Not an awkward silence; just a comfortable, companionable one. I keep glancing at her face, though; wishing she wouldn't look so sad and hoping it's more worry over Stan than hurt because of me. I don't want to be responsible for making anyone feel bad, especially not someone as nice as her.

Porschea is the other reason I'm kind of nervous. I haven't spoken to her since our "date" to the art museum with Wendy and Stan over a month ago. I just hope she's ditzy enough to have forgotten the entire thing; the last thing I need is to make up excuses and figure out how to console yet another person. But Wendy hasn't said anything about her, and, weird as it may be, they have advanced piano lessons together every Tuesday afternoon; so if Porschea was broken up about it, I'm sure Wendy would have told me. Unless she doesn't care… In fact, it doesn't make sense that she'd set me up in the first place.

"Why Porschea?" I ask suddenly, my voice cutting through the air.

Wendy gives me a look. "Huh?"

"Porschea," I repeat carefully. "if you liked… I mean… if I was the one you… if you-"

"Have the hots for you?" she fills in, her eyebrows arching questioningly.

My eyes slice to hers, then fall away quickly. My cheeks are flaming. "Well… yeah." I mumble, kicking an empty soda can out of my path. "Then why'd you pick her for me to go out with? She may not be the brightest crayon in the box, but her looks almost make up for it. You must be incredibly in control of jealousy."

She smirks, looking ahead calmly. "You give me way too much credit. Thank you, but my reasons were nothing but selfish."

I stare at her, confused. "…Okay."

She laughs to herself, pushing hair behind her ear. "Stan wanted to double date, because he wanted to spend more time with you without giving up time with me, and he thought you'd feel more comfortable with a date of your own." She explains. "I wanted to spend more time with you too, and so I agreed."

She lets that sink in, and I, thoroughly embarrassed, am approximately two shades brighter than my hair.

"Oh." I respond, wishing I didn't blush so easily.

She nods thoughtfully, mostly to herself. "When I asked you to describe what you'd be interested in, I decided Porschea was perfect, because she fit your description to a T, so it looked like I was actually trying to find you someone; but she's incredibly dim-witted, and I knew you'd never go for someone like that." She smiles at me, showing all her teeth, and it makes me laugh. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm dreading what's going to happen if I run into her tonight." I admit sheepishly.

"I wouldn't worry too much about that." She grins. "That's the _other _reason I chose her. She loses interest really easily. It's all about Kenny now. How do you think he got the party at Raisin's for free?"

I frown. I didn't even think to ask Kenny how he got the funding to put this thing together; I'd been too preoccupied trying to find the perfect gift to think of anything else. "How?"

"Porschea's parents own Raisins," Wendy informs me. "Kenny flirted ruthlessly until she agreed to get her parents to let him have the party there, free of charge. Kenny's got that certain charm …"

"Yeah," I agree. "so I've noticed."

Raisin's comes into view, and we both stop simultaneously. Wendy takes a deep breath, holds it, then lets it out slowly. I pull my hand from my pocket and reach over to squeeze her fingers; she squeezes back and cups our hands together.

"Ready?" I ask her. She nods.

It's pure chaos once we slip inside the door. The place is full, and everyone seems to be overly energetic and having a good time.

Everyone except Stan.

It's like _Where's Waldo, _and takes a few times of sight searching before I spot him sitting at a table, sipping a cup of dark soda through a straw. He's not alone, but he may as well be; he doesn't seem to be paying any attention to Jimmy, Clyde, _or_ (I'm happy to report) the half naked Raisins girl flirting with them. I turn to Wendy, getting close to her face so she can hear me.

"There he is," I speak under the music, pointing. "You okay?"

She nods. "Yeah."

I guide her toward the table, pulling her behind me by the hand, maneuvering in and out of people and Raisin's girls. Stan perks up when we're about half way there, recognizing me in the crowd. He pushes his drink toward the middle of the table and gets up. He hasn't seen Wendy yet.

"He's coming." I tell her; she stiffens noticeably.

My heart is tripping all over itself, but not because I'm nervous about Wendy; it's because he's looking at me, smiling at me, pushing people out of the way because he wants to be with _me_. My eyes slip down his body, and I have to bite my lip, _hard,_ to make myself look back up.

"Hey." I manage to croak out when he gets closer. It comes out incredibly smooth, though breathless. I feel like I've got a metal band wrapped around my lungs.

He opens his mouth to say something, then pauses about a foot away, and I know that he's spotted Wendy over my shoulder. I glance back at her. She's frozen, too, it seems. I step back, pushing her forward a bit. Neither one of them are moving, and their gazes are locked together. Stan's jaw is still hanging open, suspended in perpetual shock. I pry Wendy's hand from mine and move to Stan, touching his shoulder. He doesn't so much as flinch.

"Wendy wants to talk to you," I murmur in his ear. "I think you should listen to what she has to say."

He doesn't respond; so I pat his shoulder, give Wendy a reassuring smile, and walk away, leaving them to deal with it on their own. He's not screaming and he hasn't broken down in tears, so that's a plus. They've gotten off to an okay start, and if anything goes wrong, there are too many witnesses for them to kill each other.

I make my way to the table Stan was sitting at and invite myself to sit down. Jimmy and Clyde don't seem to even notice me; their Raisin's girl is keeping them too entertained by showing skin I'm not interested in looking at and telling a stupid story I care nothing about. I look back at Stan and Wendy, standing in the corner by themselves. She's saying something, tears streaming her cheeks, and suddenly she throws her arms around him. He's hesitant, but hugs her back, closing his eyes; and I know without a doubt that this is exactly what he needed.

My heart throbs as I watch them, but not in a good way. It _burns_, and I wish I could do something to make it stop hurting so badly. I wrap my arms around my stomach, hugging myself, trying to soothe the ache there, but it only spreads. I'm not sure if it's conceived in the heart and sinks downward, or born in the stomach and comes up, like vomit; but I feel it all over, poisoning my veins.

I force myself to look away, focusing instead on the wooden tabletop. Making myself sick for wanting what I can't have isn't going to do anyone any good. I blink away moisture gathering in my eyes and swallow; it's so dry my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

I pull Stan's drink forward, peeking inside. It had looked like soda from far back, because it's dark; but thank God he decided he wanted iced tea today. The straw is slightly chewed, and for some reason this fact makes me smile, and the smiling helps my heart not feel so broken. I sip on it while I watch everybody else, (mostly Kenny across the room, coming on to everything with tits) and eventually order a plate of cheddar poppers and more tea from a Raisin's girl named Lexus, who tries too hard to make me feel special.

She'd just come back and set them on the table, warning me that they're hot, when Cartman slides in next to me and promptly orders chicken wings. He's not exactly rude about it, but "polite" isn't the first word that comes to mind either. I watch him watch Lexus until she disappears; then his eyes cut to mine. His expression is bordering hostility, but calm enough where I'm not too sure.

"What do you want, Cartman?" I demand. Not harsh, just suspicious.

He stares at me, jaw twitching. "What the _hell _is that?" He throws his hand in the general direction of Stan and Wendy. "After everything that's happened, and you're still trying to get them together?"

"Of course not," I remark, offended. "What, do you think I'm stupid?"

He smirks suddenly, his eyes glinting. "Well, actually-"

"Never mind!" I snap.

"Hey, you set yourself up for that one, Kahl; you know I think you're a stupid Jew." He reminds me, amused.

I scoff rudely, sneering, but don't comment. I don't want to admit that he's right; I did leave myself open for it. I haven't had my defense up around him. There's been a sort of tolerance between us lately, ever since our conversation about Stan in front of the pet shop. I have to say I'm glad for it; it's nice to not constantly be on guard for insults, though I think a little part of me always will be when I'm around him. And things aren't _good,_ exactly… I don't think Cartman and I could ever be _friends_, it's just not so hostile of a mutual hate anymore.

"I also know you're a fatass." I reply indifferently, mostly out of habit.

"I guess I should live up to my reputation, then." He decides, grabbing a fistful of my poppers and shoving them into his mouth.

I scowl. "Hey-!"

"Here's your chicken wings, sweetie!" Lexus sets the platter on the table. I snatch one with lightning reflexes and rip half the meat off the bone with my teeth, my eyes boring into Cartman's as I chew. Lexus sounds surprised. "Enjoy, and let me know if there's anything else I can get you, cuties." We ignore her as she walks away.

"It doesn't matter, anyways," Cartman states slowly; bitter. "They don't make them fresh, she brought them out too fast."

We fall into another spell of silence, eating both poppers and wings; watching Wendy and Stan in the corner of the room. They aren't hugging anymore, at least, but seeing them together still makes me feel like I've been punched in the stomach. I take another swallow of tea, washing down the food in my mouth and too sick to eat any more. Cartman's stopped too, I realize.

It's amazing really, how powerful jealousy can be. It's a kind of poison; one that's so powerful it cripples every other emotion. Just knowing how Stan feels about Wendy, how she's the only one in the world he wants, makes me feel like there's something horribly wrong with me, and I wonder if the only reason he doesn't want me is because I'm not a girl, or if there's a lot of other factors. I chew on the straw, contemplating, and look back at Cartman.

It's not hard to see why Wendy wouldn't want him. Not that he's bad looking. In fact, he's come a long way since his awkward childhood days. He's not fit, but I'd hardly call him fat anymore. He's big, thick; and his stomach is round and soft, but it suits him somehow. Even his face is pleasant when he isn't scowling. It's his personality that makes it difficult for anyone to truly like him. He's so aggressive, so quick to insult people. But I know that for whatever reason, it's not _him. _Those are just little things he could change, quite easily if he really wanted it enough. Cartman has the strength in him to do anything he wants to do, so long as he truly wants it, and that's just one of many traits I think Wendy would like about him if only he'd give her the chance to see it.

… But Stan already likes a lot about me. I don't say it to be vain; it's fact, otherwise he wouldn't have chosen me as his best friend. So really, there isn't any reason _keeping _him from wanting me; he just _doesn't. _The passion, the attraction… it's just not there for him, and that's a thought that pricks my heart all over. I look back to the corner of the room and blink, surprised when I find it empty. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Wendy, engaged in a new conversation with Porschea.

Stan is nowhere to be seen.

I frown, searching the room frantically, but all I find is Kenny, who waves at me half way across the room and immediately goes back to the two Raisin's girls he's flirting with.

"I guess things could be worse," Cartman says, startling me into looking at him. He's watching Wendy. "We could be stuck talking to that dumb bitch." He hitches his thumb toward Porschea.

His attempt at lightening the mood makes me smile, but it's weary; and he doesn't look much better than I feel. His expression is one of unmistakable longing. I know exactly how he feels.

"I think someone should save her from the agony." I hint.

He looks over at me with large eyes, too caught up in Wendy to twist his face in disgust at me. "…You think?" He asks, honestly doubtful about it.

"I think it's the perfect excuse to talk to her," I tell him. "and you're even more retarded than I originally thought if you don't take advantage of that."

He harrumphs at that; but he's already distracted again, watching her. He grabs a chicken wing and starts picking it to pieces, letting it fall all over the table. "She's probably just going to be a sarcastic little cunt, I'll get pissed off and call her a bitch, and she'll hate me even more."

His lack of confidence surprises me, and I almost laugh. "It's because you're a freakin' asshole all the time, Cartman!" I exclaim. This time he does glower at me. I ignore it. "It's probably going to take her a while to trust you, but… I'm never, ever going to say this again, so listen, okay? I think you're a hell of a guy when you want to be, and I think Wendy would think so, too. But you have to let her see it, or you're going to miss your chance, and _now _is your chance. A lot of guys like her, Cartman. Charm her before anyone else does, because you can bet your ass they're going to try their damnedest to win her over now that Stan is out of the picture."

His eyes shift to mine for half a second, flitting immediately back to Wendy. She looks over at us, like she's sensed being watched, and flashes a smile as Porschea continues on and on.

"Smile." I force through my teeth, nudging Cartman in the ribs with my elbow. He does for once, or tries to at least. Wendy's smile falters slightly, confused. She doesn't understand why he's being nice to her. But then her smile brightens even more than it was to begin with, and she gives a little wave before turning her attention back to the other girl.

"You see?" I ask, shoving my elbow into him again. He growls and slams his shoulder full force into mine, making me wince. I narrow my eyes at him, nursing my abused skin with my hand.

"It's really as easy as …being _nice_, isn't it?" He sounds like he's just learned the meaning of life; a huge revelation in his mind. I nod.

"Go for it, Cartman. Make her forget all about-" I catch myself, eyes widening, because I almost said _me._ "…Stan." I finish lamely, saving myself from immeasurable wrath. "Make her forget about Stan."

He pushes himself up from the table, grabs my drink and, ignoring the misshaped straw, downs the rest of it. He uses his arm to wipe his mouth, muttering a "thanks" into it, hoping I don't hear it all too well. As he walks away, he spits over his shoulder, "Fricken Jew."

I hope that things work themselves out for him; I hope for once, and possibly even the last time in my life, that Cartman gets what he wants this time. Nothing is funny about loving someone who simply doesn't feel the same. It's a hell I'd never wish on anybody, although I'm sure everyone has to go through it at some point in their life; at least once, but probably more. I know I never want this to happen to me again, but that doesn't matter really, because I don't see myself ever falling out of love with Stan; not now that I've realized I already have been my whole life. Why would that change now that the feelings have deepened from childhood with sexual desire and a better understanding of what love is in the first place?

I put a tip on the table, folded under my empty glass, and wonder vaguely if soul-mates really exist; and if they do, then maybe they don't necessarily have to be _lovers. _Maybe Stan and I are soul-mates of the friendship kind; written together in the stars but not stitched together as one.

But that's just the philosophist geek coming out of me.

Cartman is talking to Wendy when I leave the table, and I can see that she's laughing. As glad as I am about it, I can't help but feel a bit resentful toward him. He stands a chance with the person he wants. He can _try_, and if he's lucky he might actually _get_. It just isn't fair. For me there's not the faintest glimmer of hope. I _can't _try. I can't do anything but hold it in and pretend like I'm not dying on the inside. I haven't gained a single thing from _love_, and it's not even close to a goddamn fairytale.

I'm aggravating myself. My veins are pulsing with animosity, and I try to ignore it, but that frustrates me even more; I'm too hot and there's too much noise going on in here. I push my way out the door, feeling relieved when the cold air hits my face. I swaddle my arms across my waist and look up at the sky. It's clear and moonless. For some reason the stars are always brighter when it's cold outside.

"…Kyle?"

I jump, my hands falling away from my body; startled at the quiet voice. My heart is thrumming madly, then quickly changes tempo to a beat just as wild, but more pleasurable. I recognize Stan's "aura" through the darkness, and we gravitate toward one another until the material of our sweaters touch.

"What are you doing out here?" He asks gingerly; a habit he's recently adopted when we're alone together. I have no idea why… but it always comes out so sensual; it's maddening to my senses.

"It's too… _busy _in there right now." I respond, watching his face. "It's _your _party, though, what are _you _doing out here?" I shove my hands inside my pockets, resisting the urge to reach out and touch him. He gazes upward, hugging himself.

"Just thinking, I guess." He searches the stars, scanning before coming to a stop. His eyes close and he sighs, long and quiet; I have the strongest desire to inhale his breath through my mouth, our lips touching.

"Are you okay, Stan?" My voice quivers. I don't think he knows that I'm staring at him.

"Yeah," he breathes, eyelashes fluttering as they open. His hand reaches out to me, fingers grazing my side. I almost melt and unconsciously reach out for it, and then we just link together. Maybe after all this time, his hand feels naked without mine, too. His palm is warm, and for some reason it sends a shiver up my spine.

"Do you know what I like best about Wendy?" He asks suddenly, still looking up. I try not to feel jealous, but it's so hard. I've always hated when he gushed about Wendy; but I always listened without complaint. That's what a best friend _does._ I take a deep breath, swallowing sickness.

I can be strong, for _him_.

"What do you like best about Wendy?" I ask; my voice is kind, gentle. He squeezes my fingers.

"Her heart." He answers simply. "It… she didn't have to show up, you know? She knew it might be weird. She knew I might have called her a whore and kicked out or something, but… she came anyway, just to make sure I was okay. Just… to tell me she still cares about me, and that she's here for me. It really helped a lot, hearing those things, because I know she'd never wanna hurt me on purpose."

I don't really know how to respond to that, so I stand quietly, letting him think; just happy to be near him, connected by touch. I wouldn't trade our friendship for anything, even if it eased the ache in my stomach. No matter how deep it cuts when I have to go home without him, to sleep in a bed that isn't warmed by his body; I hope we'll share moments like this throughout our lives, with just the two of us.

"…Do you know what I like best about… you?" He murmurs, so soft I almost don't hear him. My heart stops, then restarts again in overdrive. I hadn't expected that question; I have no idea how to answer. He's watching me when I peer over at him.

"W-what… do you like best?" I stammer, nervous. My palm starts to sweat, and I wonder if he notices.

"Everything," he exalts, turning to face me completely. My eyes have adjusted enough to see his features clearly now.

"E-everything?" I parrot, sounding like a reject. I wish I could slap myself and not look retarded for doing it.

"I couldn't pick just one thing," He admits, the faintest smile on his lips, even though his eyes are completely serious. "and it made me realize that the one thing I like best about you is everything; you as a whole, not just bits and pieces. You're always here for me when I need you, no questions asked. You're the epitome of a good friend, of a best friend. You're so important to me, Kyle, so special. I can't describe how grateful I am to have you."

Our eyes are glued to each other, held by whatever magic draws me to him. This time, though, I think that he feels it's power, too; it's tugging on his end. His hand moves from mine, sliding onto my right hip, the other finding its way to my left. His fingers curl into my belt loops, drawing me into him; so carefully. His eyes start to close as he leans forward.

My blood comes to a dead standstill.

"What are you doing?" I squeak, making his eyes open. My voice is raised to a pitch three octaves higher than normal.

"Trying to kiss you," He breathes against my mouth, then inches forward again. I turn my head away so he can't catch my lips. His nose hits my cheek.

"Why?" I question, breathless.

He freezes, then pulls back very slowly. We blink at each other. My brain feels like it's been on a tilt-a-whirl; it cant figure out what's happening and why Stan is looking at me like I've just grown the ass of a monkey on my forehead.

"_Why_?" His eyes narrow in confusion, but his hands continue to grip me. "Are you serious?"

I'm seriously not even sure what my name is right now. He's standing way too damn close and my entire world, at this moment, is Stan Marsh. I nod dumbly, not even quite sure what I'm answering anymore. We stare at each others lips, breathing ragged; then his arms fall to his sides and he takes a step back.

He rakes his fingers through his hair, frustrated. "Because you … I… _thought _that's what you wanted!"

My heart is throbbing in the bad way again; and suddenly it feels dreadfully cold out here. I ball my fists against my chest, shivering.

"_Me?"_ I ask, letting out a noise that could be a laugh, could be a sob. "I don't-"

"No!" He shakes his head, getting even more upset. His voice is strained; panicked. "No, Kyle, you did want it! You _did!_"

"Stan," I choke. I can see the heartache in his eyes a second before my vision blurs with tears.

_Christ… why now?_

"Don't do this to me, Kyle, Please! I wouldn't… I wouldn't have _done that _if I wasn't sure… if I wasn't _positive _that you-" He breaks off, crumpling at the waist; burying his face in his hands. His shoulders start to shake. I try to touch him, but he jerks away like he's been burned.

I bite my tongue until I taste blood, trying to calm myself. "Stan, I'm sorry." I whisper. "I was too… I shouldn't have been so _touchy _when you were-" I swallow, blinking through the tears. "I'm sorry I gave you the wrong idea."

"No," He growls, trembling all over. "it wasn't just that. It wasn't just the way you've been touching me. It was… it was-"

"It was what?"

"_Everything!" _He cries, throwing his hands up. "Everything that we _are _together. I… you… know everything about me, you… you call me every morning before school to tell me what you dreamt that night, you always save a spot for me at lunch, you let me eat all the buttery pieces of popcorn because you know I can't stand the plain ones!"

"Stan," I shake my head, laughing miserably. "You're talking about _popcorn."_

"And I'm right, aren't I?" He challenges, sounding completely logical.

I blink at him; shake my head sadly. "You're confused. I'm sorry… you're upset about Wendy-"

"Oh… _fuck _Wendy!" He shrieks, making me jerk in surprise. "Look at me, Kyle!" He points at himself. "Look at my fucking face! I am _not _confused! I know what I feel! I know what's been happening between us! You can't tell me that you don't feel it, because I know damn well that you do!"

I'm quiet as we watch each other, the tension thick like fog around us, gripping my windpipe so that I can't breathe. I've never felt so desperate in my life; so _guilty. _I can't believe I caused this much damageHe was hurting because of Wendy, and I screwed him up by forcing him to rely on me. What the hell have I done?

"I wanted this," He confesses, calmer; tears streaking his face. "I thought you wanted it, too. Was I wrong?" His voice cracks, and his pain tears my soul to shreds.

I stifle a sob, hating myself for what I have to do. But what other choice do I have? I did this to him, and telling him he's right is only going to feed his false emotions.

I shut my eyes, digging my nails into the flesh of my other arm; concentrating on the crescent-shaped points of pain. My soul starts splintering as soon as I open my mouth.

"…You were wrong." I whimper.

I hear him sob my name miserably into the sky as I turn away and run.

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**TO BE CONTINUED…**

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_-BC3_


	16. Popcorn

**A/N: **Whoa… _There's _my reviewers! Holy mother of Christ on a pogo-stick. THANK YOU! It's about the only thing right now giving me any joy. It really made a huge difference and I can't tell you guys how grateful I am that so many of you took the time to review. This chapter isn't as long as they normally are, but I felt it was a good ending place and I wanted to give you guys an update before you forget about it. P Inspiration suddenly struck me this evening, reading over all the reviews for last chapter, so lets hope it lasts and I get the next chapter out sooner. )

I promise I'm not trying to drag this story out. It makes me nervous every time I post a chapter because it's getting so long, but through this whole thing, I've sat back and let Kyle take the wheel. This is his story, and I'm going to let him tell it. I'm not going to intentionally rush the end, just as I wont intentionally drag it out.

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**Chapter 16- Popcorn**

Have you ever spent a whole night replaying a conversation in your head? Wondering what sort of logic the person you were having the conversation with was using... and why you had no clue what they were talking about?

I haven't slept a wink because of it. I can't stop thinking about Stan. I can't stop thinking about how close I came to the one thing I want more than anything else in the world, and how I lied to get out of it. I can't stop replaying the heartache on his face when I told him he was wrong; when I pretended I didn't want him.

…I can't stop thinking about popcorn.

I sigh and look at my clock, which blinks to 1:23 AM the moment I do. My lights are still on, and I'm laying on my bed with my hands behind my head, staring up at the ceiling; _miserable_.

He's right, in a way, about the popcorn. I _do _let him eat all the buttery pieces. Because… it makes him happy, and nothing in the world makes me happier than when he is.

_But he doesn't know that_, I remind myself. This frustrates me a little bit, because I don't understand his reasoning, and me and Stan… we always _get _each other.

So why don't I this time? I don't understand how popcorn is something he can build a whole assumption on. In fact, out of everything he mentioned, there's an incidence in which he behaves similarly toward me. After all, _he _always gets sugar free ice-cream, just like I have to, so I won't feel left out. And, hell; he even gives me his cherry when we have sundaes, just because he knows how much I love them.

It's something he's always done. _Because we're friends. _It was never because he _wanted _me. And, yeah, maybe I do save him a spot at lunch, but _he _waits to walk with me to school.

…And so what if I call him every morning? He calls me every _night_, just to tell me "sweet dreams", though not worded exactly that way.

I frown thinking about this, because he didn't call to say "goodnight" today, and that bothers me a little bit; but I guess I can't really say I'm surprised by it, either. He must feel terrible.

Fuck, I hope he's all right.

I turn onto my stomach, hugging my pillow to my face. I close my eyes, breathing in deeply; trying to relax and find I'm unable to. My wall clock ticks above my desk, sounding especially loud in the silent post-midnight hours. I contemplate putting in a CD; something calm, but decide there's too much work involved. The player is all the way on the _other _side of the room.

Usually, when I'm having a night of acute insomnia, I'll get a call from Stan, who can't seem to sleep, either. But so far, my cell phone has sat quietly on my side-table, getting a far better nights rest than I could possibly hope for at this point.

My eyes are heavy and sore with fatigue, and I wish I could knock myself out with a baseball bat and not suffer brain damage for doing it. I dimly consider calling Kenny, but who knows what he'd be doing after a party where he could have potentially charmed the pants off of any number of girls there? I consider Ike next, and even Wendy; but this situation is far too complex. Ike because of his age, (even though I'm probably underestimating him again) and Wendy because… it'd take too much explaining. That, and I'm not entirely sure how well she'd take to the prospect of me lusting after her ex-boyfriend.

I sigh again, releasing my pillow and turning onto my right side. A seemingly endless sea of empty bed greets me, and my stomach gives a painful lurch as the realization sinks in that… it didn't _have _to be empty tonight. Had I gone along with Stan's advances, he'd be here with me; holding me, loving me… letting me do all the things I've ached for _so _long to do.

Looking at it that way, I want to punch myself in the face for being such a retard. I screwed myself out of my ultimate fantasy; a fantasy that I could be living out right now. I could have kissed Stan tonight, and he wouldn't have pulled away. He would have kissed me back; would have _touched _me back. I bite my tongue, my eyes stinging with tears.

_But it wouldn't be worth it in the morning_, I remind myself, reaching out to touch the vacant pillow beside mine. It wouldn't, not when he could never look at me again. Or worse, when he'd look me in the face and tell me the whole thing was a mistake; that it didn't mean anything, that he felt absolutely nothing for me. But at the same time, I worry that everything is already damaged between us. I wonder how badly I hurt him, and how stupid he's going to feel when he comes to his senses and realizes his emotions are just fucked up and that he could never possibly want me. I wonder if the prospect of trying to kiss me will make him laugh because it's so ridiculous.

I wince, shuttering at the thought, and a more selfish part of me hopes for his misery over his laughter in this particular situation. But that only makes me feel worse.

…_Christ,_ everything sucks right now.

Moaning, I flop onto _his _side of the bed, inhaling the scent of his hair on the pillow. My eyes close slowly as my head fills with the smell, and despite everything, the familiar tingles start buzzing deep inside my stomach, spreading warmth all the way down to my toes.

I'm stupid for even letting myself entertain the thought, I know; but what if… just, _what if… _I hadn't stopped him? And what if, by some miracle, he wasn't confusing his feelings?

I almost smile thinking about it, even though I know I'm only kidding myself. But you know something? Who cares if I want to fantasize? What's one night of wishing going to hurt? What's one last time envisioning all my dreams coming true?

I sink deeper into the mattress, sighing. I can picture everything about him, so perfectly. Why does he have to _smile _at me the way he does? And why do his eyes have to be that _color_? It's so unfair. But I'm smiling now, thinking about it all. I know tomorrow I'll have to face reality, but for now, I let my thoughts tempt me, and soar through all the possibilities I know can never be.

It's not until I get around to thinking about falling asleep with him, our limbs tangled up rather than just laying beside one another, that I start to drift off, and my cell-phone begins buzzing softly next to me… but I'm too far gone to answer.

---

I wake up the next morning far earlier than I would have liked, my stomach in knots. I feel horribly nervous, and I don't want to go to school. I'm not sure what's waiting for me there… or rather, what _isn't _waiting for me. I don't know if Stan will even talk to me. But then there's this little part of my brain saying… that it's _me _who can't face _him, _and I think I believe that more than anything right now.

I eat breakfast in the dark, watching the kitchen grow brighter as the sun rises behind the mountains. I'm finishing the last slice of my orange when Ike stumbles in, still in his pajamas, yawning. He squints at me through tired eyes, then collapses into one of the chairs.

"Morning." I mumble, wiping my citrus sticky fingers on a wet napkin.

"Mmmff." He manages to slur back. I smile softly at him and rumple his hair, muddling it more than it already is. He growls at me, glaring, and flattens it down with his hands as best he can.

He, like Stan, is not by any means a morning person. They're both nocturnal by nature, and always sleep in until at least ten on the weekends. Stan is mellow when he's waking up, though. I can talk to him and tease him and usually I can even get him to smile. Ike's his polar opposite when it comes to morning moods; he'll rip your face off if you bother him too much. He rubs his eyes blearily, then lets his face fall against the tabletop.

"Have some juice," I tell him, slamming half a glass of _Florida's Natural _in front of his face. His eyes open half way, and he groans before sitting up and chugging it like a shot of brandy. I don't really understand why he's so grumpy. Ike should love the mornings; Ike should love every minute of his life. It's not like he has anything in particular to be upset about. Mom and Dad still buy him everything, they baby him, he gets good grades, he has lots of friends. My lips pucker at the thought, eyes narrowing in on his face as I tap my fingers against the tabletop.

_Unless_…

"…Hey, Ike?" I ask him, remembering our last morning conversation all those weeks ago. "What ever happened with that girl you like?"

"What?" He grumbles, disinterested in my musings so early in the day. He pries the container of orange juice from my hands and pours another half-glass.

"I was just wondering about that girl," I rephrase. "Did you ever get the chance to impress her?"

He stares at me, confused, and suddenly I see his expression click. "Oh, her." He remembers, his voice dull. "I don't know. I guess I just lost interest."

I blink. That was only a little over a month ago. "Just like that?" I ask, bewildered.

He looks carefully at me, surprised by my reaction. "Yeah. You like someone and then figure out later that they suck and you get over it. That's the difference between a crush and actually liking someone. You're not _that _stupid, Kyle. Stop pretending to be a retard, it's really _annoying_."

I snort at that, offended. I _do _know how easy it is to get over a crush. I guess after so many weeks of StanI just didn't expect such a neutral answer about getting over someone. I just can't see it being that simple anymore.

I watch Ike curiously, then leave him to his breakfast, figuring that's about all the conversation he can handle before he's truly awake, and head upstairs for a shower. I give him a backward glance as I exit the kitchen, catching him smile at the stupid joke printed on the back of the cereal box.

It hurts to know Stan will get over me just as easily.

---

There's a weeping willow on the corner of the street Stan's house is on, and I always find him perched against it in the mornings, waiting to walk to school with me. His face lights up when he sees me, eyes sparkling like cerulean stars, and then he scoops his backpack up off the ground and falls perfectly into step with me.

I have no idea if he'll be there today.

My heart pounds harder the closer I get, and I have to keep telling myself not to turn around and run. I have never in my life dreaded seeing Stan; never until today. And it cuts like a pointed tip of a diamond.

I didn't call him this morning to tell him what I'd dreamt. I don't think we've missed a day of that in seven years. And when I grabbed my cell phone before leaving the house, I had a _1 missed call _message across the screen from last night, with Stan's name under the caller-ID. And even after seeing that, I _still _didn't call him, because I was too afraid of what he'd say; because if I'm honest with myself, I'd rather never talk to him again than hear him tell me we can't be friends anymore.

I can't explain how that makes me feel inside, how _empty._ But it made me realize that something inside me is broken; something that can't be fixed, something that I'll never get back again. And I don't know if I'll ever be the same.

My shoes splash on the slush of the sidewalk; the remainder of whatever snow had been left on the ground and the rain we had last night. I take a deep breath when I turn the corner, trying to prepare myself, but I still miss a step and slip a little when our meeting spot comes into view. My stomach is already sour, but my lungs tighten when I find it empty. I stop in my tracks as the dread creeps into my bones, and I seriously consider turning back around; going home, hiding under a pile of blankets and never coming out again for the rest of my miserable, fucking, pathetic, sorry excuse for a life.

Then I see a flash of blue near the tree, and Stan steps out from behind it; head downward, hands deep in his pockets. Seeing him standing there, I feel something inside of me change, and suddenly it feels like all my fear had been felt by someone else. Warmth spreads through the deepest part of me, melting my insides, and I find myself being drawn into his magnetism again. I'm standing in front of him before I even realize I've moved.

He looks up at me carefully, and I watch his face, swallowing thickly when the blue of his meets the green of mine. He stares for a moment, locking me into his gaze, then looks back down, blinking sadly.

"Hi." He mumbles. His hat is on crookedly, and a small tuft of dark hair is poking out onto his forehead. I reach out to touch it, but pull back before he notices.

"…Hey." I whisper back, folding my fingers into my palm. He swallows a few times, then wets his lips.

"Do you hate me?" He asks, squeezing his eyes closed as if he were suffering some unbearable pain.

"What?" I rush, then more firmly, "_No._" I shake my head, eyes still glued to him when looks up at me through his bangs. His expression resembles a puppy expecting to be scolded for wetting in a slipper. "I could never hate you, Stan. How could you think that?"

He snorts sarcastically, but strangely, it sounds more like a sob. His eyes water as he searches the clouds, and I lean a bit closer, unable to help myself. "I fucked everything up, didn't I?" His voice is shaky.

"No-"

He's shaking his head, biting his lip, angry at _himself._ "I'm sorry." He breathes, swallowing back all the emotion.

"It's okay." I soothe. _God, _I want to touch his face. "Everything's gonna be okay, Stan."

And then I do touch him. I don't even mean to, I'm just sort of there, arms sliding around his neck. I feel him sink into me, but we rest our chins on each others shoulders, I for one, resisting all that I am to not nuzzle my face in his throat; breathe him in… taste his skin. I unconsciously pull him tighter, gritting my teeth against temptation, and pat his shoulder blade, like a _good _friend would do. He in turn holds me firmly, longer than we probably should; long enough for Kenny to make remarks if he were here.

He's the first to pull away, but he doesn't step back. His eyes dig into mine, questioning just under the surface. I look away, stepping around him so he won't see how hard it is for me to let go, and pull my hand out of my pocket, reaching behind me.

"Come on," I urge, trying to keep my voice light, but it only sounds desperate in my own ears. His hand slips into mine, palm sliding against palm, until they locked together in just the right way. I pull him up beside me, then let go, but he keeps pace with me. We slide our hands back into our pockets at the same time, and I wonder if his reasons are the same as mine.

We're mostly quiet through our walk; which is okay, I guess. We do that sometimes, so it's at least _normal_. I can feel him look up at me now and again, trying to figure me out; maybe wondering what's going through my head same as I'm wondering about what's going through his. For the most part though, he pouts; frowning down at his shoes in what seems to be outright frustration. I want to ask him about it, but I can't seem to force out the words, and before I know it, the school pulls into view. He grumbles something unintelligible at the sight, to which I grunt in agreement, then fall silent again. I stop him halfway up the schoolyard.

"Hey," I put my hand on his shoulder, stopping him. He turns to face me, glancing at the point of contact. My hand falls away, and I think I see his eyes flash with distress. "Come to my house after school? I still have your birthday present I want to give you."

Something in his eyes softens, which surprises me. He didn't look harsh to begin with. "You don't have to give me anything."

I smile faintly. "It's a little late for that. I can't return it and my mom will have a conniption fit if I keep it."

He watches my face, managing a slight smile of his own; unaware how completely fuckable he looks. I'm not usually one to have outlandish Kenny-thoughts in public, so as my desire to throw him behind a bush and ravish the hell out of him increases, I feel my cheeks slowly start to burn up.

He lets out a soft laugh, opening his mouth to speak, but before any words come out, I'm bulldozed from the left by a massive force and crushed against softness. Shock courses my entire body in a flash of waves before I recognize the thick arms restraining me.

"Cartman?!" I yelp, my senses still reeling in frightened recourse.

"Thank you, Kahl. Oh Mah God, thank you!" He squeezes me tighter, and I gasp in what's most definitely bone-crushing pain.

"For …what?" I pant, gulping for air. He's squishing my goddamn lungs.

"For telling me what I needed to do. I had the best night of mah life! I made her laugh, Kahl! She said it was _fun! _She thanked me for being _nice!_" His hold only gets tighter, but I managed a choked, breathless laugh. "You're the best stupid Jew ever! I have to go practice being nice again before she gets here." I'm released as quickly as I had been attacked, and I topple a little. Stan grabs my arm to steady me, his touch so much gentler than Cartman's.

We watch him bound up the steps to the front doors, happier than I've seen him in a while. When I look at Stan, who's still holding my arm, his face is contorted with bewilderment.

There's an unmistakable glint of jealousy mixed in his eyes when he looks back at me.

---

_**TO BE CONTINUED.**_

---

_-BC3 _)


	17. Rocket

**Authors Note: **Hurray! Another chapter completed. Not my longest, but longer than the last. Hopes you likey's. . I'm very pleased with the reviews I've been getting, and I hope you like this installment. Let me know.

---

**Chapter 17- Rocket**

"…Hey, Kyle?"

A half hour after the last bell rings at school, twenty minutes after Stan and I part ways with Cartman, and I can finally see my house coming up in the distance. I'd asked Stan at lunch, when it had occurred to me, why in hell he didn't just drive to school now that he had the option. His answer was simple: "_I like walking with you."_

I bite my lip now, evaluating the words for the millionth time, and answer his current inquiry. "Yeah?"

Hesitation. I tilt my head slightly, looking over at him. He's pretty much pouted silently the entire day, taking breaks every now and again to watch me with that same intent, curious look he'd given me the night he snapped out of his trance. I can feel him prying into my thoughts, digging into my secrets with some sort of super best friend, x-ray, laser vision or something; and I'm trying to block him out so he won't know how badly I'd lied to him. It's been a battle of wills all day, and I have no clue who's winning. I'm afraid, though, that he's caught me staring one too many times, the way I'm staring now. I am _so _fucking obvious.

I quickly look back down. "What, dude?" I ask again. My shoes drag loudly as we walk.

He finally sighs. "Nothing."

I smile faintly at the answer, feeling my mental scoreboard click. "Seven."

"Seven? What does that mean?" He asks, somewhat paranoid, in my opinion.

"That's the seventh time you've said 'Hey, Kyle' and answered with 'Nothing' since we left school." I report.

"You kept _count?_" His frown deepens. "Sorry."

I roll my eyes, shoving him playfully. "And that's the _twenty-third _time you apologized for yourself since this morning. Seriously, whatever it is, just tell me or ask me or something. The anticipation, man, it's making me nuts."

We stop in front of my house, where I proceed to fish through my pants pocket for my key. Stan swallows loudly, saying nothing. I peer up at him through my eyelashes and find him thoroughly absorbed in watching my hand groping around inside my pants. My blood stills.

"…Stan?"

He jolts at the sound of his name, then backs up a few steps, refusing to make eye contact.

"What is it?" I urge, my face hot. Christ, I didn't know it was going to be this difficult. Stan doesn't blush easily, but he bites his nails when he gets nervous, and he's currently munching away.

"I was thinking about Cartman," He mumbles against his fingers.

"Cartman?" I repeat, my eyebrow quirked.

"Yeah."

We stare at each other, trying to decode thoughts again; gauging one another's reaction to each tiny instance for quick analytical processing. It used to be so easy to finish his sentences. We used to know exactly what the other was thinking with a quick exchange of glances.

"What about him?" I cave, unable to solve the puzzle of his thoughts.

He studies me another moment, suspicious. "Something's… _different _between you two."

I successfully pull the key out and jam it into the door handle, our roles switched. Now _I'm _too uncomfortable to look at _him_. "Really?" I turn the key and shove the door open. "I hadn't noticed."

"You hadn't noticed?" He follows me into the house, grabbing my hand and turning me to face him again. "Kyle, he _hugged _you this morning."

"I helped him with something," I snap. "That's _all_."

"Why are you getting so defensive about it?"

I reach over his shoulder and push the door closed behind him, then turn back around. "I'm _not_."

"Then what's wrong?" He's not trying to be a dick about this. I know he isn't, but he's touching too close to sensitive matters.

"You're insinuating things," I growl. "Horrible, _terrible _things about me and Cartman. What the hell do you _think _is wrong?"

"Jesus, Kyle, I was only asking." He defends himself. "You're such a drama queen sometimes."

I whirl and nearly smack into him. He's closer than his voice sounded. "Drama queen?!"

"Yes."

"_Queen?!_" I repeat, emphasizing the word that's particularly offensive here.

"I think my point has been proven." His eyes are dangerously narrowed. "You are the queen of queens."

My blood is boiling under my skin. Stan's usually the one to calm me down, not spark flames of fury. What the hell is going on here? "Why are you being such a dick to me?"

"Why are _you_?" He fires back. "All I did was ask a question. He sat with you at lunch, you weren't apart for one second between classes, you talked all the way back to his house-"

"Jealous?" I ask coldly, my arms crossed, eyes slits of green poison.

"Yeah." He admits. "I am." He raises his arms in a helpless gesture and lets them fall back to his sides. "You said everything was okay between us, but you failed to mention that Cartman is your new best friend."

"Cartman is _not _and never _will be _my best friend!"

"What, boyfriend then?" Stan hisses, his voice calm, but deathly vile. I'm shaking visibly in my rage, and I want to scream. The painfully obvious tension that's severed our communication for the day has finally reached its peak. "Am I right?" His voice is soft, mocking.

I lunge at him, shoving him violently onto the couch. "Just because we're getting along doesn't mean he's my boyfriend!" I explode. "You're in no position to be jealous! Look at everything I have done for you this past month! I've held your hand, I've read you books, I climbed into bed with you every goddamned night-!"

"-And then you stopped!" He bellows. I'm on my knees, each of them straddling Stan's thighs. If I sit, I'll be in his lap. My hands are on his shoulders, pushing him back into the cushions, his resting dully at his sides. His face is torn between hurt and anger, and just like that, I'm miraculously able to read him like a book again.

"… And you didn't want me to." I murmur, staring into his eyes.

He answers carefully, his voice firm and sure. "And I didn't want you to."

I bite my lip, softening. I could easily kiss him right now, and Holy mother of Moses, I want to. I wonder what he'd do if I just went for it and didn't stop.

"Stan-"

The sound of tiny feet pattering on the carpet makes us look away, our attention redirected.

"…You got a dog?" Stan asks, watching the puppy sniff around the coffee table.

"No," I tell him, pushing myself off his lap and onto the other side of the couch. "_You _did."

His head whips around to stare at me again, shocked, but excitement already seeping into his expression.

"Happy birthday." I conclude.

"Kyle!" He laughs, just as the puppy leaps onto his lap. "It's a little Sparky!"

I'm still feeling a bit irritated, and my sexual frustration is at an all time high; but as I sit here, watching Stan laugh while his new pet licks his face, tail wagging madly, I feel my face softening into a smile.

---

After going over one million and one names, we came up with Rocket, due to the pugs' annoying habit of shooting straight up into our arms without warning. After the naming ritual, we took him for a walk, going the semi-short distance from my house to Stan's. We ran most of the way, until Rocket decided it was bullshit and insisted on being carried. Stan happily complied, talking with cutesy, purposely mispronounced words, like; "Are you tired my widdle Wocket? Don't worry, I'll, cawwy you home because I wuv you!"

I have never in my life heard Stan talk that way to _anything_, not even Sparky, and I am rightfully concerned. This is just not normal Stan behavior. If I said 'widdle Wocket' he'd be scared for his life. I think he's puppy whipped, to be perfectly honest.

Goddamnit.

…I can't even believe I'm jealous of a _dog. _A thousand sarcastic thank-you's to Stan for accomplishing that

humiliating feat.

Now, though; we're spread out on Stan's living room floor, our backs against the couch, where Rocket has already taken over residence; flopped over on his back, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth while snoring louder than the buzz of a chainsaw.

I lean my head against the couch, closing my eyes. We're finishing _The Catcher in the Rye_, and Stan had volunteered himself to read it.

"_I think it's about time I did my share." _He had grinned at me, brandishing the book. I gladly accepted the offer, and am currently relishing in the sound of his voice disturbing the otherwise silent house. His mom isn't due home from work for another hour, and his dad a bit later than that, so the place is all ours for the time being.

It's only when he stops reading that I realize I'm starting to doze. The abrupt _quiet _throws off the buzz of relaxation humming through my body, and I open my eyes, frowning at the unwelcome disruption.

"What the hell, dude? Why'd you stop?" I demand, eager to fall back into my Stan-induced hypnosis. His eyes are stuck on the corner of the page, but it's obvious he's not seeing the words. "Stan?" I ask, lifting my head. He smiles faintly, still looking into the depths of his mind.

"Remember when we taught each other how to read?" He asks. "In first grade, every time we stayed over with each other, we'd pull out a book, sit on the couch, and read." He finally looks at me, and I nod, a small laugh escaping me.

"Yeah." I answer. "If one of us didn't know a word, the other one did. Between us we could read any _Dr. Seuss _book we set our minds to." I grin back, and we chuckle together, watching each other as we do. The staring lingers long after the laughter is gone, and his face grow serious.

"You didn't want to, either." He says quietly, hugging the book and his knees to his chest.

"Huh?" I ask, confused.

He blinks at me, his eyes deep and sad. "I… this past month. You didn't want to stop reading to me, or holding my hand, or climbing into bed with me any more than I wanted you to stop." I turn away from him, ready to get up, but he lurches forward and wraps his arms around my shoulders, catching me before I can escape. He tries to look at my face, but I keep it turned away from him, my eyes glued to the floor, hands clasped together on my raised knees.

"You're wrong about that, Stan." My voice is quiet, _dry_.

"No, I'm not." He whispers. His thumb is rubbing circles into the skin of my arm, and I can barely think with him doing that.

I take a deep breath. "I was only_-_"

"_No._" It comes out pleading, and so soft it's practically nothing but a tickle of breath in my ear. "I may be wrong about everything else in the world, Kyle, but I'm not wrong about this. I'm _not. _I can see it in your _eyes._" I sit rigidly, not saying a word, my eyes digging into the carpet. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"

I look at him then, out of pure curiosity, if nothing else. His face is close; so close all I can see are his eyes. His fingers sink between mine, clasping my hand and bringing it up to his chest. He flattens my palm against his ribs, and I can feel that his heart is thudding wildly inside, matching the tempo of mine to absolute perfection. He brings his other hand to my heart, feeling it quiver madly in time with his.

"Kyle," he breathes, touching my cheek with the back of his fingers. I instinctively lean backward as he leans forward, and we both lose our balance and collapse to the floor. I can feel his body on top of mine, and I open my eyes to find him hovering over me.

"Stan, you've got to stop this." I tell him. My voice is unsteady and completely unconvincing.

"I don't want to stop." He touches my face again, watching his fingers against my skin. "I don't ever want to stop."

"_I _want you to." I insist. I try to move my legs, but only succeed in brushing them against his. The movement sends a flight of sensations through my body, and I know that he's noting the effects on my face. "You've got it all wrong, Stan."

"I've got it all wrong?" He asks, sarcasm creeping heavily into his tone. I nod my head. "Oh, so it totally wouldn't do anything for you if I did this, right?" His hand slides over my throat, and my breath comes out in a pleasured gasp. He pauses, looking down on me in complete astonishment. He hadn't expected such a dramatic response, even if he _does _think he's right. Stan is not arrogant, but he knows when people are lying; especially me, and he's using that gift to his advantage. He knows I want him. He doesn't understand the how or the why, but he has a firm grasp on the general concept.

I'm surprised to see his eyebrows pull together, contorting his face in pain. "Kyle, why-" He swallows thickly, trying to read me again, but I block him out, freezing my gaze over with ice. "Why are you fighting this?"

I stare back at him; hard, unfeeling. If I open my mouth and say anything, all that's going to come out is how much I fucking want him. I can't move, either. If I do I'll only pull him closer. So I marbleize myself, staying perfectly still beneath him; stubborn as a fucking mule. He's trying to read my eyes, trying to break through the block I've put on my thoughts. His finger traces my jaw line, and the contact makes my breath start to quicken. He blinks again, still honestly surprised by my reactions to his little touches. He settles his body along mine, rubs his nose against my neck. I go limp beneath him, my blood thickening with desire.

"I want you, Kyle." The words are a rush of warm breath against my neck before his lips dissolve into my skin.

"_Stan_," I mouth, no sound coming out. His lips suckle down to the hollow of my throat; pressing open onto my skin, then closing and fanning outward to form a sucking motion.

"Tell me you don't want this." He dares me, his voice thick and husky, moments before his teeth sink gently into my skin.

The truth is that I want this more than I want to breathe; to live, to laugh. The truth is that I've never wanted anything so bad in my entire life.

And the truth is that his want for me is only an illusion.

"Stan," I whisper. I squirm slowly; writhing under his touch.

His teeth nip behind my ear, making sparks shoot through my stomach. "…Mmm." his lips vibrate against my pulse.

"Stan, _please…" _Still a whisper.

His fingers are gliding, twirling, twisting slowly up my torso, pulling my shirt up with them. My knees start shaking.

"Please what?" His question is hot in my ear. He presses his forehead against my cheek and squeezes his eyes closed. "I'll do anything you want me to."

"_Please_," A moan this time. I don't know if I'm asking him to stop now or never.

His teeth find my earlobe and grind it gently, and suddenly my back is arching off the floor. His breath hisses in his throat.

"Stop." I manage to whimper. My hands find their way to his chest, pushing upward. He pulls back instantly, looking keenly into my eyes, gasping.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't want this." I pant, pushing up on his chest.

"You're lying."

"Get _off _me, Stan."

He snorts. "If you really want me to, which I seriously doubt considering the size of the bulge in your pants right now, then why don't you make me?"

My face is fire-engine red, a mixture of embarrassment and anger. The combination gives me the boost I need to overpower him and throw him onto the floor. His elbow hits the couch, making him wince. I scramble to the opposite side of the room and glower at him, flames shooting from my eye sockets. The look he shoots me as he cradles his arm is a thousand times deadlier than mine.

"I am _not _going to be your rebound sex!" I explode, hating him for being so careless about this sort of thing. The bitterness melts from his face, and his eyebrows draw together.

"Rebound sex?" He frowns. "Kyle, what are you _talking _about?"

"Wendy!" I remind him, exasperated by his stupidity. "This all comes down to you and Wendy!"

"This has _nothing _to do with Wendy! This is _you! _Can't you see that?" He pulls himself to his feet, but keeps his distance. "And what do you mean 'rebound sex'? I've never _had _sex to begin with."

"That's not what you told me."

"I wouldn't lie to you." He argues, stepping closer. I step back.

"You said it was 'too late'!" I fire at him, pointing my finger.

He shakes his head, staring for a long time, and I wish he wouldn't. I'm uncomfortable with him looking at me like that.

"Is that what's bothering you so much?" He finally asks, nicer now. "Kyle, you didn't let me finish. And maybe that was a bad way for me to word things, I confess, but that's not what I meant that night." He pauses, waiting for my reaction. My expression doesn't waver. "I meant it was too late to try and talk me out of it, because I'd already made up my own mind. I tried to go all the way, and you know what happened? All I could think about was how much it mattered to you that I waited. I just couldn't get myself to disappoint you like that, and honestly, I wasn't all that ecstatic about it, either. I just felt like it'd secure mine and Wendy's relationship somehow. I cared a lot about Wendy, I admit that, but even then I didn't know why it was so important to me to make it last. I knew I could live with out her. I knew I didn't _need _her, and as long as I had you, I knew I could move on."

"You seem awfully assertive for someone who's still a virgin." I point out, and to my chagrin, he actually has the nerve to _grin_. Asswipe.

"You excite me like no one else." He explains, stepping closer again. I let him this time. "Besides, I already know I can make you cum. I've done it before."

My face flushes with heat again. "That was-"

"Don't lie to me." He snaps, irritated. "It's not like you to lie, now why the fuck are you denying the obvious here?"

"You're my best friend, Stan." I bite my lip, losing myself in the blue of his gaze. "That's all. And it's all you ever will be. This… _thing _you're going through, it's just a phase. This is just some stupid infatuation you developed; rebound feelings from Wendy. That's all."

He nods, understanding me so much better than he'd seemed capable of. There's patience in his voice when he speaks, and I'm irritated by it, because it's melting my heart more than it already has been by him. I can't afford to fall even harder for him than I already have. I'm already in too deep.

"Okay." He says. "Forget about whatever kind of infatuation you think it is I have with you, and just tell me how _you _feel about _me_."

I don't answer him right away. I can't. It'd be way too easy to give in to those eyes. But I can't be selfish; I can't confuse him more than he already is. "I don't have any feelings for you, Stan." I separate the words carefully, hoping to produce the greatest impact on his brain. "Not anything more than I feel for Kenny: simple friendship."

He tries unsuccessfully to hide the pain my words cause him, but I see it flash across his face. I can't stand to see him that way, knowing I'm the cause of it all. I've spent so long trying to mend his heart, only to break it again. I must be some kind of monster. I turn away, opening the door to leave. His hand on my shoulder stops me.

"I don't believe you."

My heart thuds mournfully, five whole beats before I respond. "Then you're wasting my time."

---

Our relationship is strained the next day, with Stan observing me like some sort of lab rat and me enduring it with tight-lip silence. We still walk to school together, though; but conversation is scarce. I desperately need to fix this, but I don't know where to begin. It's such a helpless feeling.

I save him a seat at lunch, sitting across from Kenny and Butters. They've got the contents of their backpacks strewn across the table, scrambling to finish some sort of paper they'd put off until the last minute, and I'm glad to have their attention directed at something that isn't me. I don't think I could tolerate Kenny's perverted theories about my mood and Butters overly-exaggerated analysis of my state of mind at the moment. I need to _think. _I need to figure this thing out. My resolve is quickly dissolving and I'm afraid I'm an inch away from giving in to Stan.

I spear a piece of asparagus with my plastic fork as he walks quickly toward the table. He slams his tray down on the table beside me and sits down, his face intent.

"Dude, what the hell?"

He stares at me, his eyes burning into mine, then reaches over and grabs a stack of plain yellow post-it's and a pen from Kenny and Butters supplies. He scrawls something across the top, rips it off, and sticks it to my thigh under the table. I blink at him, then look down at the note.

_I don't believe you._

I rip the paper from my leg and roll it into a tight little ball, stinging him with my gaze. Then I write him my own note, sticking it to _his _thigh: _Too bad._

He glowers at it, but leaves it there as he writes another. I pull it off my pants before I read it, but keep it out of eyesight of anyone else.

_You held me while I slept._

I crumble that one, too, but I don't reply. Instead of giving up, he simply writes another.

_You kissed my face one night. You kissed my lips. Just because I seemed like I wasn't there doesn't mean I didn't realize it._

I shred this one to pieces, making an angry show of it. He watches me calmly, waiting until I'm through destroying it before writing another. This one makes my face go white seconds before bursting into flames.

_You moaned my name in your sleep almost every night. And you were hard. I checked._

"Stop it!" I hiss out loud, making Kenny and Butters look at us.

"Why should I?" Stan growls back, shooting up. "It's the truth."

"No, it's _not_!" I stand too, just so I wont feel so small. I hate feeling insignificant.

"Why can't you just admit that you want this every bit as much as I do?!"

"Because I _don't!"_

He grits his teeth, grabs the pen, and practically tears letters through the paper. He slaps the post-it to my forehead with a resounding smack, then stomps away. Kenny and Butters watch him go, then turn back to me, there's eyes confused and wide with shock. I pull the note from my face and read the single, underlined word:

**LIAR!**

---

_TO BE CONTINUED_

---

**-BC3 **


	18. Butterflies

**Authors Note: **Hurray! I'm so sorry for the crappy ass delay in getting this chapter out. There have just been SO MANY THINGS happening lately. But guess what? Here it is! And… it's full length chapter size and not short like my last two. Heh.

Fuck, I hope you guys like it. A few of you seemed less then thrilled with the last installment… so here's hoping I've somehow got my kick back.

XD ?

**Chapter 18- Butterflies **

Kenny kidnaps me after school, swooping me right out from under Stan's passion-fired anger and promising him that he can have me back right after a few "romps in the hay". Butters gives him a disapproving frown, but he smiles warmly at Stan and claps him on the back.

"Come on, Stan." He says, guiding him off school premises. "Boy, do we got a lot of- lot of ground ta cover. Let's talk, buddy."

Kenny watches me as they go, his eyes dark. "Yes." He mutters. "Let's."

I try to give a sidelong glance toward Stan's retreating back, but Kenny slings his arm around me and pulls me in the opposite direction, toward the park. I know already that I'm not about to enjoy myself. Kenny may be the friend who loves a good time at any cost, who can make _anything _into a sexual innuendo, but he's also got the firmest hand when it comes to serious situations. He's a no-bullshitter when the welfare of his friends is at stake, even if it's the friends themselves he's got to bitch slap.

He prolongs the wait for the inevitable lecture with small talk; the kind reserved for grandmothers and great aunts at family things. _How've you been? How's school? How's Ike? _…until I finally explode.

"What is this Kenny, some sort of Jewish death-march? Nazism is _illegal_, you know!"

"Relax," he snickers, pointing at a large, grassy hill near the back of the park. "We're going right up there." He smiles, shaking his head as he starts up it. "Such a firecracker."

"What?" I snarl, trudging after him. "I heard that!"

"Yeah, yeah. Fucking _relax_, I said." He pulls me down beside him once we get to the top, and we lay on our backs, our heads next to each other and our legs pointing in opposite directions.

"You're not smoking." I realize after a moment, and I can sense his smile beside me.

"Nope."

"When did that happen?" I wonder.

"The cigarette you fed to the squirrel the day we went ice-skating is the last one I tried to smoke." He sounds thoroughly pleased with himself, and with good reason. I'm proud of him, too.

"Wow," I murmur, blinking up at the sky. "That's great, Kenny."

"You don't sound especially thrilled about it."

I ponder this, picking at the grass under me. "It just makes me realize how little we actually hang out anymore. It's kind of sucky."

"Kind of?" He teases, reaching up to pull my hair. I yelp like a retard and grab at it. "It's okay, Kyle. I miss you and Stan, too. But you've had your issues lately and it was in everyone's best interest to stay out of it. Now that Stan's decided to join the land of the living, I hope things can go back to normal."

I hope so, too, but I don't say it for some reason. We're quiet as we listen to the breeze and watch the clouds float slowly across the sky, then start up a game of calling out what we see in them.

"A bunny." I'm the first to point one out.

"Boobies." He counters.

"Clover."

"Weiner."

"Heart."

"… That's not a heart, Kyle. That's an ass." He states, poking his finger into the air and tracing the shape. "An ass in _really _tight pants."

"Goddamnit, Kenny." I hiss, but I'm laughing. He turns his head toward me, smiling, and I look back at him.

"It's good to hear a smile in your voice again. I don't think you realize it, but you've been gone just like Stan. I've missed you."

I watch his face, waiting for the joke, the perverted remark; but he looks so serious, so caring. I look back up toward the sky, taking in the sea of infinite blue, and then I close my eyes…

And _breathe_.

"You gonna tell me about it?" Kenny asks carefully, his voice tame and tranquil, like I'm some sort of highly breakable china-doll that will crumble if the wrong pitch hits the air, and I wonder if I've really gotten that bad.

"About what?" I ask, my eyes still closed, still breathing. It feels good to stretch my lungs, like I haven't used them in years.

"About you and Mr. Marsh." He's still looking at me, I can feel it. "I plan on talking to him next, so if you don't fill me in, he will."

_Fuck you_, I think, and regret it. Kenny is only trying to help. So I open my eyes, taking in the sky, the blue, the bunny shaped clouds.

"He says he wants me." I say simply. Kenny doesn't so much as blink. I look at him, and he stares back, not surprised in the least. I blink back up to the clouds, slipping my hands, cold from picking at the damp grass, behind my head. "He tried to kiss me, but I told him I didn't have any feelings for him."

"So your feelings changed." He muses, drawing all the wrong conclusions. I shake my head.

"No, they didn't change. I lied to him."

There's silence. I can feel Kenny's breath still beside me; I feel him freeze, then suddenly…

"_What!"_

I sort of expected that, but I still flinch a little at his tone. "I told him I didn't have any feelings for him." I repeat. "You know. Like _that._ And it was a lie. You know just as well as me how damn much I want him."

I hear Kenny choke for words, a series of strangled noises issuing from his throat before he pushes himself up and turns on me.

"What the _fuck, _Kyle!" He shrieks. I look up at him, squinting against the sun. His hair is practically glowing in the light. "He said he wants you, and you told him you _don't? _He tried to kiss you and you said _no_! Kyle, what the bloody fucking hell is _wrong _with you! Are you brain dead or just plain retarded?"

"Hey!" I yell in my own defense, scrambling to sit up. I poke my finger into his chest, grinding the tip into his skin. "You, Kenny, _you _are the one who watched me like a fucking serial stalking hawk, warning me at random moments to keep my hands to myself! _You _are the one who told me not to screw my friendship up with Stan by giving in to temptation! I'm only taking your advice! Now _I'm _the retard! What does that make _you_!"

"Practical!" He spits, his tone a dead-ringer of '_WELL, DUH!'. _He grabs my hand, yanking my finger out of his ribs. "Kyle, you're stupid!"

My face twists in complete outrage, my teeth bared in a ferocious snarl. His insults hurt, and I hate him. "_Stop calling me fucking stupid, Kenny!"_

"Okay!" He says urgently, holding his hands out in front of him. "Okay, but Stan is _giving _himself to you! And you're not taking! For the love of _Pete_, Kyle, why aren't you _taking?_"

"I already told you." I murmur, looking down at the grass, watching it dance in the breeze. Sadness washes over me suddenly, making me feel helpless. I hate fucking feeling helpless.

"You know what, Kyle? You always do this to yourself." He accuses, pity and exasperation rocking his voice. "You over goddamn think all the time and it gets in the way of common sense. You find a way to make everything so fucking complicated when it's really very simple."

"It's not simple." I argue.

"It is." He counters.

"And how do you figure that?" I demand, but all the bark is out of my voice. "Things could get really weird if it turns out this isn't right for us."

He's already shaking his head. "If you would have tried to molest your very straight, very girl crazy best friend, _that _could have gotten really weird; but that isn't the case here." He crosses his legs Indian style and hold his hands out, as if presenting some sort of object. "He read all the signs from you and decided he wants it, too. This is not the same thing as one gay friend lusting after and trying to push a relationship on a straight one. This is two best friends who feel a lot more than friendship for each other and want- and _need _more."

I fold my knees up to my chest, staring off somewhere in the distance, thinking it through, and I realize I _am _trying to find a problem. It isn't because I want a reason for it to not work; but because I want it to work so badly, I'm afraid I'm overlooking something that could spoil it.

"Stop analyzing, Kyle." Kenny admonishes, pointing at my nose. "I know that's what you're doing."

I look back at him, almost smiling, but the nervousness stops it from reaching my face. "You really think we could still be friends if it didn't work out?" My voice is reluctant, especially as his face lights up. He feels me crumbling under his influence, and it's obvious it pleases him.

"I _know _you would." He promises, eyes glowing.

"How do you know for sure?"

He drops his gaze, shifting his legs around.

I frown. "Kenny?"

He sighs, long and loud and exaggerated before answering slowly. "Because _I've _done it before." He wipes his palms against his knees. "And you and Stan have a deeper, longer friendship than me and Butters."

"_WHAT?" _I yelp, having lost all control over the volume of my voice. Kenny grins up at me; sheepishly, devilishly. "When the fuck did _that _happen?"

"Last year." His smile fades, but he doesn't look ashamed. "It was different for us. It wasn't this whole romance factor like you and Stan. It was just two buddies experimenting with their newly blossoming hormones."

"You mean you guys-"

"Yeah." He nods, completely serious. "When we decided it _was _just experimenting and wasn't for us, it stopped, and guess what happened then? That's when we became like this," He twists his index and middle finger together. "And we have been best friends ever since."

I look away, staring sightlessly off into the distance; dazed, shocked.

_Amazed._

Kenny touches my shoulder after a minute, waiting until my eyes meet his again to speak.

"For once in your life, Kyle," He pleads, penetrating my soul with his baby blues. "Let yourself have something you want."

The breeze picks up, and I watch him blink against it. Kenny is more grown-up and makes more sense than anyone I've ever know in my entire life.

But I would never say that to his face.

* * *

I wake up that Saturday with a post-it stuck to my forehead.

At first I'm startled, but I quickly recover and sit up. I peel it from my skin, leaving a sticky trail of leftover glue behind, then read the simple message:

_You've got mail._

The handwriting is unmistakably Stanley, and I wonder exactly when it was he had snuck in here to stamp me with his message, and how long he had stayed. I read it again and look at my computer. It's already fired-up, my screensaver of colorful dreidels spinning happily across the screen. Curious, I leave the comfort of my bed and cross the room to my desk, disturbing the mouse with a smooth jerk. The screensaver disappears in a blink.

The first thing I notice is that Stan has changed my desktop background from a picture of Terrance and Phillip to one of me and him on our trip to _Six Flags _last summer. We're standing side by side near a stand of balloons and glow sticks, eating churros and smiling at each other. It hadn't been an expected picture; Kenny had been snapping random photos all day, and this is one of many that had emerged. It's difficult to look at and not see how close we are. I focus on Stan's image longer than I should, realizing how utterly _happy _we both look.

I swallow back a knot in my throat, coast the mouse pointer to my email icon and double-click, then scroll past a few junk emails and a chain forward from Butters to click on Stan's name. The subject heading is blank, and the email itself is simple: A picture of a human eye, with the caption "clue #1" underneath.

I blink, a little more than surprised by it. "Clue for _what_?" I wonder aloud. I scroll further down, finding one last, simple sentence:

_Clue #2 is feeling hungry._

My eyebrow shoots up. I think it's safe to say Stan may have gone completely mad. Then again, maybe I'm even worse for being as intrigued as I am. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but I'm a Jew, and I want to know what all these clues add up to. I click off my email and swivel around in my chair, contemplating.

_Hungry_, I think. "Well, it's either gone to Bennigan's for breakfast or it's in the kitchen." I decide, and head downstairs.

"Good morning, Kyle." Dad greets me from the couch, barricaded by a mug of coffee and the morning paper.

"Hey, Dad." I respond, full speed ahead toward the kitchen. There's another post-it, bright as day, on the middle cupboard:

_I wonder where it could be?_

Even on paper, the words have a certain ring of banter in them, teasing me.

"Goddamnit." I curse, eyeing each cupboard and wondering just how funny he thinks this is. I'm almost stubborn enough to say 'screw it', head back upstairs and sleep some more. _Almost _stubborn enough, but not quite.

I start first with the cupboard the note had been on, carefully pulling out all the cups until it's empty, but evidently he thought an obvious place would make it too easy on me. Aggravated, I move on to the next one, then the next, getting a little more careless with every passing moment I find _nothing_. Dishes are starting to pile up around me when a monstrous gasp fills the air.

"_Kyle_!" I hear my mom scream from the entryway. "What in the name of creation are you doing!"

"Looking for something." I answer, pointing out the blatantly obvious.

"Looking for _what_?"

"I'm not sure yet." I continue to dig.

"For goodness sake, young man, you are destroying my kitchen!"

"I'll clean it when I'm done." I promise, annoyed with her pestering.

"You bet your little Jewish tushie, you will!" She barks. "And you will do it right this instant!"

"Alright, Ma, I get it. _Jesus_." I hiss, just as I reach for a clear canister of cookie cutters. I can already see the note folded inside. "HA!" I pry the lid off, sailing it in the direction Mom had just vanished from, and pull out the particular shape with the note taped to it. When I pick the paper off is when I realize it's not just any random cutter; it's a heart. A heart shaped cookie-cutter.

I'm frozen again, the way only Stan is able to freeze me; my own heart tripping over itself as I stare at the simple piece of metal in my hand. The clues so far are perfectly clear; an eye and a heart. '_I love…'_

I read the newest note:

_Clue #3- Time to wash up._

_Easy, _I think. I stand from my crouching stance on the floor and practically demolish the piles of dishes strewn about as I head for the bathroom, the large silver heart still clutched in my hand. Mom nags me again on my way up, but I tell her I'll be right back to clean up after I use the bathroom.

I close the door when I get inside, squeezing my eyes shut and taking a breath before flicking on the light. The note is posted in the center of the mirror, slightly crooked. I approach it like I would a sleeping bat, my mouth dry, pulse racing. I reach up carefully when I make it to the sink, and pull it down for inspection:

_Look straight ahead. Can't you see, it isn't about sex._

I do look, slowly, even though I already know what I'm going to find; a mirror, a reflection.

_Me. _

The nerdy, redheaded, fiery little Jew-boy in all his pathetic glory, staring back at me in disarray; hair a mess, clad in boxers and a simple white T-shirt, cheeks flushed, lips slightly chapped.

And Stan loves it.

That's the completed puzzle, the reason for all these post-its, the big shebang: _I love Kyle._ From Stan. Amen. Glory hallelujah. No joke. Thee end.

My reflection and I gape at each other, understanding the words, but blown away by the meaning. My face pales, eyes shining wide and bright against it, heart pounding like thunder in my chest.

"… _Shit."_

The single word echo's loudly off the walls.

* * *

It takes nearly an hour to clean up the mess I'd made in the kitchen, and I manage to complete the task with only minimal complaining from Mom that I was putting it back wrong. When I've finished, I spend the better part of my day wandering aimlessly around South Park, deep in thought, hands wedged into my pockets. I don't talk to anyone, and I avoid eye contact so that they won't talk to me, either. I don't want to be bothered; I want to analyze.

But I'm starting to think Kenny may truly be on to something when he said sometimes analyzing makes things seem more complicated than they really are; because by the time I get home, I still don't feel I've come up with any solid resolutions, and I feel even more doubtful than I had to begin with.

I eat dinner in silence, focusing on my family talking amongst each other, allowing their voices to drown out my thoughts so that I can have some peace of mind for a little while. Afterward, I follow them into the living room and start up a game of _crazy eights _with Ike while we watch a movie my parents had rented. We're on our fourth game when the phone rings, and the sound sends a rush up my spine.

Dad answers, and I hold perfectly still until he recognizes the caller. "Oh, hello there, Stanley." He greets. I feel my blood rush to my limbs and face. "He's right here, just a minute."

The phone is dangling in my face a moment later. I take it timidly and hand my cards over to Dad, who settles into my spot and resumes playing with Ike.

I linger off to the side of the living room, breathing into the phone before managing to say anything. "Hey, Stan." My voice is weak, and I sound completely lame.

"Let's play a game." He says, not seeming to notice.

"Oh no," I sigh. "It took me almost an hour to clean up from the last one."

There's a moments pause before he asks, "…Did you find all the clues?"

"Yeah."

"And you figured out what they mean?"

I squeeze the phone, trying not to tremble, but my voice gives me away. "Yeah."

More silence, and it seems to go on forever. I almost think he's hung up until he speaks again, his voice husky. "Go up to your room."

"What for?" I wonder, and it makes him scoff.

"Don't be so stubborn, and just go up to your damn room." He commands.

"Alright, alright." I snap, stomping off up the stairs.

"Are you going?" He asks, making absolutely sure.

"Yeah, I'm almost there, don't get your boxers in a bunch."

My eyebrows furrow as I reach the top of the stairs, confused because I can see a ribbon of light streaming through the bottom of my door even though I haven't been upstairs since this morning. It obviously wasn't me who had turned it on.

I grasp the door knob and twist carefully, giving a gentle push. The door swings open slowly, revealing none other than Stan himself, standing in the middle of the room, waiting for me. We stare at each other, and I'm mesmerized again by everything about him; his hair, his body, his lips, his eyes.

…Those goddamn _eyes_.

"Close the door." He tells me, still talking through the phone, his eyes never leaving mine. I obey, too far under his spell to argue. "Lock it." He says next, and again, I comply. Then we're back to staring at each other, still clutching our phones.

For probably the first time in my life, I take Kenny's advice, and I don't allow myself to think. I just feel, and everything I feel when I'm next to Stan is nothing short of feeling like I could fly. It's like magic, adrenalin, happiness, and freedom, all rolled up and flowing through every inch of my body.

"Hi." He murmurs simply.

"…Hi." I answer. Another pause. "What are you doing here?"

The words sting him a little, and I see it reflected on his face. "I wanted to see you."

"Most people use the front door." I remind him, offering a soft smile. He returns it briefly, but he can't seem to retain the expression. He looks down at the floor.

"…Kyle, I'm scared." He declares. The words make my own smile fade into a frown.

"Of what?"

He looks back up at me, and the pain in his eyes makes my heart ache. "Of losing you. I don't want to lose you to this, Kyle. If you really don't want this-" He struggles for words, struggles against a lump in his throat. "Then I would gladly keep your friendship over nothing. I don't want to lose it all. I _can't _lose that. You're way too big a part of me." He trails off, and there are so many things that I could say, so many things I _want _to say. But I think I've been doing way too much talking, way too much caring only about what I have to think. I've been selfish, incredibly so, and I'm not going to interrupt him; I want to hear what he has to say. Maybe I'm too late, maybe he doesn't want me anymore. I feel my heart sink a little at the possibility.

"But at the same time, I'm afraid to _not _try." He continues, picking at the hem of his shirt. "I think you're afraid too, and that makes sense, but… we don't have to be scared if we're in it together. You're my other half, Kyle. My- you're my soul-mate, whether or not it ever goes past our friendship. I know you are. And I need you."

He stands, his feelings completely exposed and vulnerable, right in from of me, and all I can do is stare at him. He is the epitome of perfection, the meaning of love, my whole life. I couldn't clearly express to him what I'm feeling inside; the enormity and honesty of it. I don't want to taint his words with my own, which would pale horribly in contrast with his. I can't even begin to form them, so I watch him, in utter amazement.

"Don't look at me like that." He begs, sounding completely miserable.

"Like what?" I breathe. My heart is pounding madly.

"…Like you hate me."

I move my head slowly, from side to side, my eyes holding his intently. "I couldn't _ever _hate you, Stan." I whisper.

And then the magnetism overtakes me, and I feel my body slam against him. I'm clinging to him half a second later, crushing my lips against his, sliding my tongue along the length of his lower lip; tasting him, breathing him in. The phone slips from my hand and lands with a thump as my arms encircle him, wrap around his shoulder's and pull him closer. He melts into my touch, pulls my waist deeper into him, holds me tighter. Then he's kissing me back; thoroughly, passionately, turning my blood to liquid fire. My fingers slide up through his hair as I move my head to the other side, delving my tongue deeper, thrusting it slow and gently against his. I'm swallowing his moans, I realize, and the revelation of it generates a whimper of my own deep inside my chest.

It's too much, and we break off suddenly for oxygen. We're staring once again, taking in great gulps of air. His eyes are blazing wildly behind a cloud of lust.

"… Wow." He pants, breath quivering.

"Yeah," I gasp. We're still anchored together by our arms, and I'm aware of his hand caressing my side, my own massaging his neck.

"Kyle," He whimpers, and looks at me with those eyes, moves closer, until our breaths are one against each others skin; until my heart is beating so fast it's more of a buzz, like hummingbird wings. He pauses when our lips are half an inch apart, his head tilted slightly, in the perfect kissing angle adjacent to mine. I'm trying to keep my breath steady; trying to calm my gasps of air, but I'm still breathing heavily. I can't help it. Not when he's so close, not when he's looking at me like he craves me more than the oxygen he needs to survive; like he's never wanted anything more. He moves his hand up to cup my face, and his stilled thumb comes to life, rolls down my cheek and across my jaw. The sensation makes my knees tremble, and my eyes slip closed. His breath ghosts warmly against my face as his mouth closes over mine again.

It's sweeter this time, warmer. I feel my bones melting at the ginger probing of his tongue, and my knees almost buckle. He notices my weakness, and takes the necessary steps back to reach my bed, pulling me with him by the belt loops. He pulls me down with him, then pushes me over and settles on top of me. His leg is tight between mine, and fuck, is he hard. I can feel the bulge pressing against mine. I moan into his mouth, my hands trailing down his back to grab his ass and pull him tighter against me. He breaks the kiss again, burying his face in my neck. His lips move against my skin as he speaks.

"We don't have to rush things." He tells me, his breath hot in my ear. "Neither of us has done this before."

I freeze underneath him, the desire clearing almost instantly from my head as I remember that I never told him…

_about Cartman_.

"What's wrong?" He asks, concerned by my sudden change in mood.

My lips part, but it takes a minute to get my voice working again. I don't want to tell him. I wish I had the option to take it back instead of admitting to it. But I can't lie to him. He needs to know. I can hear the dread in my own words. "There's something I need to…" I swallow, hating the worry in his eyes. "I'm… not a- not a virgin, Stan."

He blinks down at me, shocked. He didn't see that one coming at all. "What?" He asks, disbelieving. "…Who?"

And now comes the _really _hard part. I close my eyes, rubbing them with the heels of my palms, then pull them away and look at him again.

No more secrets.

"… Cartman."

His jaw falls slightly slack, and his eyes glaze over. He's trying hard to make sense of my words, and it doesn't look like it's working. He pulls himself up, scoots to the edge of the bed, and just _stares_, incredulous, at the floor.

"Stan?" I call him, sitting up slowly. I stare at his face, wishing he wouldn't look so mortified. "It was only once. The day I thought you told me you were screwing Wendy. I… I went insane. I wasn't thinking at all."

His eyebrows are furrowed deeply, and he's still not looking at me. He seems to be holding back, fighting something inside.

"It was the biggest mistake of my life. Stan, I'm so sorry."

He grits his teeth, nearly shaking with the turmoil of it all. Then suddenly, a loud breath escapes him, almost a mourful sob,and his face softens.

"You're not some door prize to me, Kyle." He says, his voice soft with just a tinge of hurt. "It doesn't matter who had you first. Just as long as I can have you from now on." He blinks, turning his face to look at me. It bothers him more than he's letting on; his tear stung eyes give him away. But he's saying he loves me anyway. He's willing to work it through. I touch his face, like I've wanted for so fucking long, and watch his eyes flutter closed.

"Don't you know... I've always belonged to you, Stan." I drag my fingers across his jaw, pulling him against me in another kiss.

His touch sends ten thousand butterflies swarming though my stomach and out my throat.

**Next chapter: EPILOGUE!**

_-BC3 _(OMG, please review, I'm nervous this time. lol)


	19. Epilogue Hero

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Before you read:

The ending of this comes full circle. If you've forgotten the first part of the first chapter when they are in preschool, I highly suggest re-reading to get the full impact.

**Authors Note At Bottom of epilogue.**

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Epilogue- Hero

Stan and I have been together for a year. I would say it's been the happiest year of my life, but that's too cliché to describe how it feels, and if I said it's been the most magical, well… then that would just be gay.

We had to work out the whole Cartman issue at first; I had been right that it bothered him more than he was letting on. He wasn't angry about it, but it made him insecure about my feelings toward him and Cartman both. All it took was a little reassurance and a few weeks observing mine and Cartman's interactions with one another to convince him I wasn't harboring romantic feelings for the other boy.

The worst part, the most painful part for me anyway, was the hint of mistrust lurking behind his eyes whenever he looked at me. Here I had been preaching the importance of abstinence to him for days, only to run off and have a spontaneous sexual experience with someone I had no feelings for whatsoever. He hadn't expected I'd ever do something like that, and he questioned for a while how well he really knew me.

He never said any of this aloud; never wanted to make me feel guilty about my bad decisions, but we were in sync with one another again, and I could read it all clearly in his uneasy smile and worrisome eyes. He watched me carefully with peers I interacted with, especially around those particularly attractive, and he studied my reactions to anything sexually relatable we came across. I refused, stubbornly, to walk on eggshells because of this. I made perverted jokes with Kenny, responded favorably at sexual issues, and even slung my arm around Butters shoulders and gave him a comforting pat when he was feeling down about failing a math test; all how I would normally respond to any of the given situations. It took a few weeks for the suspicion to evaporate completely from Stan's gaze, and soon I was getting nothing but the most genuine trust and affection from him again.

It's still amazing to me when I think about how quickly our relationship evolved from that point on. There wasn't even any trying, it just all happened so naturally. Originally I had thought there would be some sort of awkwardness to it; it's not every day you feel up the front of your best friends pants while he's devouring your neck. But through all the touching, kissing, and yes… I admit it, _cuddling_, I haven't felt the least bit out of place. If Stan was a good best friend before, his skills as a boyfriend are astronomical.

He can be completely cheesy at times, a ridiculously hopeless Romeo, like last month, when he pulled me out into the cold early morning, insisting we wait, but for _what _he wouldn't tell me. He just held me tight, keeping me warm in his embrace until snowflakes began to fall silently around us, and then brought my mouth into possession of his, moving his lips lovingly over mine.

"What was that for?" I asked, breathless and hot, when he finally pulled back.

He smiled at me, his Stan smile, and it lit up his whole face. "They say if you kiss when the first snow begins to fall, you'll hold their heart for another year."

It's absurd for him to think it could ever possibly belong to anybody else, but I didn't care; I just leaned forward and claimed his heart for my own.

The friendship aspect of our relationship is still in tact, and I'm eternally grateful for that. We still mess around, rip on each other, play video games, and have burping contests during the previews at the movie theater. We're still us, we're still guys, and we're still best friends. I think that's what makes our relationship so powerful.

Cartman only just recently got the balls to officially ask Wendy out, and they'll be celebrating three months together next week. It took Wendy a little time to get used to the fact of Stan and I, but I think it's what finally put an end to her desire to make something work with me. She let Cartman make a complete ass of himself for a while, neither perusing or resisting his advances, until eventually she fell for him all on her own. She makes Cartman happier than I have ever hoped to see him, and in the end I think it's all he's ever really needed. As for him and I, well… we've gone back to insulting each other at every opportunity, but it's not so harsh anymore, and we both share a deeper understanding of the other.

Butters found himself a girlfriend last spring; a quiet little blonde girl who'd moved here from Georgia. I'd worried at first about Kenny, but their friendship didn't waver, and the two of them are still stuck together like blocks of cement. Kenny has gone through a series of girlfriends himself, but none of them have lasted longer than a month. I told him it was because they were built on sex and it wasn't a sturdy foundation. He told me it was obvious that I was the girl in my relationship. But he's been looking at more respectable girls lately, and I think that he took my words to heart. Maybe one day he'll be lucky enough to find what I have.

… so it's almost Christmas again, and I don't feel as depressed as I normally do at this time of year. Stan has gone beyond the call of duty to make sure I don't feel left out. All his effort has made it impossible for me to feel anything less than happy.

Tonight he's dragged me along with him to Wendy's annual Christmas party, which I'd never gone to before. But today, no one cares a Jew is at a Christian celebration; in fact, everyone is happy I came.

Cartman and I exchanged smoldering glares when Wendy opened the door for us, his anti-Semitism showing wildly. But then Wendy giggled and pointed to the rather large mistletoe hanging above the doorway. Cartman rolled his eyes and dropped his threatening stance just as I turned for Stan and pulled him in for a forceful kiss.

As Stan led me inside and deposited me on the couch, I decided Christmas definitely had its perks, and watched his ass as he disappeared into another room.

One year, three weeks, and six days since we've become official, and we still haven't gone all the way. I want to, of course, and he wants to, but we'd decided in the beginning not to rush things. Stan says he doesn't want the first time to be planned like some script, and he doesn't want to do it just because we can. He thinks when the time is right we'll know it, and that it'll happen as naturally as our hands coming together and linking whenever we're together. And I think he's probably right about that.

I'm not saying it's _easy_, and we have come pretty close. It seems we go a little further all the time. At first, it was just a lot of kissing, but hands soon began wandering, and the kisses started wandering to other places besides lips.

The first time we actually "played" with each other, I had had a headache, and Stan had pulled me back against his chest on my bed, my head resting against his shoulder as he reach around to massage my temples, easing the pain with his tantalizing touches.

"Is it gone?" He asked after a long time, his voice quiet.

"Mmm-hmm." I hummed. My eyes were closed, and I was nearly asleep.

His hands wandered down to my neck, his fingers caressing the sensitive skin. They moved slowly down my body, pausing to scrape his nails gently over my nipples through my shirt. I gasped at the sensation, now fully awake. He liked my reaction, and his lips and tongue found the hollow of my throat as he repeated the motion a few times.

He hadn't yet touched me in such a boldly sexual way, and I was already getting hard. My hands fell to my sides, gripping the sides of his thighs, which were beneath my own. His hands ran down my stomach, brushing over the most sensitive areas; awakening every sexual cell in my body. His palm glided over the front of my pants several times, teasing the mound there, then sneaking back up and creeping beneath my shirt. I could feel his hardness pressing against my ass. He teased me this way until I was squirming and gasping, still sprawled out on top of him. His fingers came back to my pants, undoing my belt, the button and zipper, and then slid inside.

He was incredibly selfless that day, pleasuring me to release in that position. I repaid him the next day by a sudden attack and dry hump. I couldn't help myself; he was just being Stan, joking with me while we watched tv, messing around, but he didn't realize how sexy he was, how everything he did made me want to throw him on the ground and go at it. So that's what I did; grinding hard against him until both of our pants were a mess. There's nothing sexier than having Stan helpless and moaning in ecstasy beneath me. It's an incredible feeling to know I have the power to give him so much pleasure.

He returned from Wendy's kitchen back to where he'd left me on the couch; smiling with his hands behind his back.

"What are you hiding?" I asked.

His grin widened as he fell beside me, up against my side. He pulled out a gingerbread man, fully clothed in icing and handed it over. He wrapped both arms across the width of my shoulders, pulling me into him and bringing his lips to my ear.

"This year, you get to eat Christmas cookies with everybody else. They're all sugar free."

I looked at him then, staring into his eyes. "You did this for me?"

"It's always for you." He said. "It always has been."

I let myself melt under his gaze, then threw my arms around him. He hugged me back, and I peered down at the gingerbread man over his shoulder, my cheek pressed against his neck. It's incredible how he can make everything perfect with something as little as a cookie. He's always had that sort of magic inside of him.

I guess you could say that's why he's my hero.

(END)

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**Authors Note:** OMFG! It's done! And it only took me forever! This is where I will make personal replies to every person who reviews, so any questions or whatever, now is the time to do it! I enjoyed writing this very much, and I am amazed at the reviews it's accumulated. I'm printing them. Lol

**Important:** I've reworked this into an original story and I found a professional editor who wants to take it on. _This fanfic will be removed if I find a literary agent._ Therefore, if you want this version, SAVE IT NOW.

THANKS FOR READING!

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-BratChild3


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